Scars
by azurelacroix
Summary: COMPLETE Graham and Starling join forces to hunt down Hannibal Lecter after his most recent escapade, following a complex trail of clues. first in a series
1. Chapter 1

Arsenic is a chemical that has many unusual properties. An element in its own right, it can be used to kill weeds, rats, and various other forms of pests.

When Dr. Lecter had scattered out birdseed for the intrusive starlings that congregated outside of the large colonial house he had appropriated from a long deceased and unrecorded client, he had included a small measure of this particular chemical. In no time at all, one of the small unremarkable birds had tottered over.

Unmarked by the poison, it was a perfect specimen. The dark feathers gave off that familiar sheen of appearing to have been dipped in gasoline. He bent down and stroked its soft little breast before tucking it into his pocket.

_Robin redbreast in a cage..._

He smiled to himself as he drew a glass of fine sauvignon blanc and settled down into the high backed leather chair situated in front of the great marble fireplace. Around him were sculptures, busts and rolled up canvases. He avowed a preference to candlelight whenever possible, and so a selection of these were lined up over the hearth. Taking a small sip from the champagne glass, he watched the flames waver and flicker in time to the music that drifted creakily across the room.

He liked that, the dusty flaws in the old brass notes. It added an antique quality to the surroundings, a casual tastefulness that could sate his lust for high class for the time being. It would be unwise to venture into the opera houses and theatres just yet, although the measure was probably unnecessary. The FBI bureaucrats wanted nothing more than to forget the name Hannibal Lecter, but that certainly didn't mean they wouldn't hear something from a little bird.

_---_

_Central Park. There was something cultured and intimate about running through the park at night. The surroundings were long ago manufactured, but everyone was deluded by its natural-feeling atmosphere. It was the busiest time of night at the park. The theatres were letting out and dinner dates were concluding. The diverse and eclectic group of neo hippies, casual thespians and penguin suit gentry flooding the walkways added to the surrounding din of traffic and talk as they meandered to homes and subway stations. _

_Soon after moving to the city, Clarice had found a less travelled route through the massive expanse of 'forest' which served as her personal mobile sanctuary. _

_A mild spring night yielded a multitude of small insects which buzzed around the dim lights that lined the pavement path. Pausing under a causeway of willow trees, Clarice bent down and grasped her knees, breathing heavily. She dropped down onto the asphalt and began to do cursory stretches to prevent cramping from happening later on when she sprinted the final home stretch. It was then that she noticed a dead bird placed directly in the centre of the path. Normally she didn't take notice other than to wince slightly and look away, but something caught her eye. She crouched down next to it to get a closer look._

_The eyes were glazed and the feathers were mussed as is usual in dead birds, but the position in which it lay did not seem natural. It lay with its wings spread on its back, almost like a crucified Jesus. There was a small forget-me-not placed in its claws. Clarice frowned as closer inspection revealed a more unsettling fact: it was a starling. _

_Instantly she whipped out the knife she carried on her belt at all times, and glanced around wide eyed for any unusual movement. Still crouching, she moved off into the brush and waited for her assailant. _

_One minute. Two. Still nothing. Biting her lip, she moved back off over the great green lawn, through the trees and escaped onto the paths more travelled by the denizens of New York and ran the whole way home. _

Starling had received but one correspondence from Dr. Lecter after his last escape, the day after he had fled. The postmark was local and the date was one day before. It was upon receipt of this letter that she made the decision to resign from the FBI, before they could dishonourably discharge her. That way, she didn't feel any guilt about not handing it over for analysis. The letter wasn't lengthy, but composed on a very expensive white sheet with fine black India ink. The copperplate handwriting was the same.

"_My dear Clarice,_

_Do you ever wonder why they say the female is the deadlier of the species? Perhaps it is the utter reversal of all those stereotypes: the caregiver, the nurturer, the submissive. Your social indoctrination has led to a belief that a woman who is a serial killer is some kind of anomaly within the spectrum of criminality, while the male serial killer dots the landscape. Shall I clarify? Women are not typed as serial killers because while a motive may be underlined by some form of mental erosion, their reasons are almost always more tangible, and their victims less random. It's a matter of proximity and intent. _

_How much virgin blood did you bathe in this weekend?_

_In almost all cases, such perversity serves some kind of material purpose, no matter how obscure. Or so one would think, considering the media or lack thereof on the topic. What do you think? I'm interested to hear your hypothesis (soon to be ex) Agent Starling._

_Necessity breeds re-invention, don't you think? You've killed at least nine men the past month, all of them murderers. Or at least, that is what you dearly hope, because if not- you're treading across that line that separates right from wrong. Even now it grows more indistinct. The press has linked your name indelibly with mine, which is not altogether inaccurate. The FBI will soon have to submit to this conclusion and would dearly prefer to terminate you before the fact. So much for your ambition. But I trust you will do the right thing. _

_Your friend, _

_Hannibal Lecter, M.D._

_ps. I expect I shall be seeing you quite soon. Pity you've lost all those federal friends and resources- not that they would've helped you anyway. _

As usual, the thesis was designed to prick, but that didn't mask the truth of it. Lecter preferred it that way. The truth, after careful forging and precise honing, made a far sharper point capable of piercing her to the very core. And so she did the only thing she could. She found the truth in the taunting and used it to the best of her advantage. She resigned before anyone could ask any questions, and managed to avoid a full fledged inquiry.

Glancing at her watch, she folded up the letter and tucked it inside her pocket. She quit the bench, and hailed a cab, detailing JFK airport as the destination.

--

As the aircraft began its descent, Will Graham was having similar consternation. On his lap a letter was folded. From the same person, it was dated six years back. It was brief and remotely personable.

_Dear Will,_

_I hope I find you in good health. No doubt you have read of my recent departure from incarceration, but don't let that trouble you. I would much rather meet you on even ground, keeping in mind that I find Praetorian assassination far too easy, and therefore less tasteful. You need not expect me at home any time soon. _

_However, I must extend to you a small ultimatum. If you attempt to pursue me, I will be forced to take defensive action. Stay home, Will. Repair your boat motors. Live out your days in whatever fine vicinity you have chosen to relocate yourself due to my reinstatement into society. _

_Regards, _

_Hannibal Lecter, M.D._

_ps. Give my regards to Molly and Willy. The boy is growing rather quickly, don't you agree? By now I would say he's nearly six feet tall. _

Graham stuffed the letter unceremoniously into his duffel bag and tried to relax as the grind of the plane's landing gear sent vibrations through his skull. After he received the letter, he had called up Crawford and asked to be relocated a second time. Graham no longer trusted the Witness Protection Program, and trusted anyone affiliated with the FBI even less. He closed his eyes and did not open them until his senses were greeted by the rumble of the tarmac. Even then it took him a moment to clear the memory from his vision.

_You're going into shock, Will. I'm sure you can't even feel the pain. I'm sorry it had to come to this. I admired you. _

Ex-Agent Staring was dozing in one of the ubiquitous uncomfortable plastic chairs, oblivious to the people offloading through the gates. Graham recognized her from the FBI profile he had accessed before leaving. And from the newspapers, of course.

Gently, he nudged her elbow.

"Clarice Starling?"

She stirred, and then blinked sleepily up at him. Regaining her senses, she sat up quickly.

"Oh, I'm sorry! Mr. Graham. Can I call you Will?"

"Please do. Didn't get a whole lot of sleep last night, huh."

"You too, huh? Come on, it'll be hell trying to get a cab, and I never saw the point of owning a car."

The curb was bustling with touring pedestrians. A slow procession of cabs wheeled along the pickup strip, each being commandeered in turn by visiting relatives, business-trip executives and returning vacationers. After three tries, Starling managed to snag a taxi, not bothering to make apologies or offer to wait for the next cab as she would've done years ago. Her southern hospitality had been dimmed somewhat by the dog-eat-dog climate of New York, but the accent that Dr. Lecter had long ago mocked still remained. It had been tightened, and her vernacular had become far more succinct.

It was both a habit and a boon. She found that by speaking less she not only observed more, but people observed less about her. Dr. Lecter's painfully intimate analyses of her heart and soul caused this trait to flourish. In the back seat of the yellow top, she and Graham kept their own council, each reminded by eachother of their mutual acquaintance.

Clarice remembered with startling clarity the intense, unblinking stare of Hannibal Lecter through glass so polished it might not have been there at all. Her body remembered the tense, visceral feeling of being trapped as he closed the refrigerator door on her hair. She remembered the taste of parsley and white wine on his lips. That cruel stolen kiss lingered in her memory, taunted her, haunted her and filled her with the shudder of revulsion. A chaste kiss, but he had done it because he knew nothing would make her feel so violated. A gesture of affection, but it made her insides twist. It frightened her more than any of the unsettling truths that had graced those insincerely smiling lips.

After she handcuffed him, he had threatened her with a cleaver, caressing her wrist with the razor edge. When he brought the blade down on his own wrist, she screamed. Blood had flooded the countertop, staining the fresh white leeks that had been recently chopped. But no sound came from him. No anguished howl. The expression on his face was constrained. He had said nothing, but picked up his own cleanly severed hand and put it in his pocket.

Had she been in her right mind, she might've come to conclusion that he would seek medical help, and fast. If the cut was clean enough and the time frame was right, a severed limb could be surgically reattached. No emergency room doctor would be looking at his face, and Starling summarily forgot to tell the FBI that he had cut off his own hand. Part of her didn't want them to catch him. Part of her believed that if he escaped, he would never come back into her life again. Never take the chance of capture again.

A foolish notion, really.

"Will...did he ever write to you?"

"Three times. A Christmas card after I caught him, a letter after Dolarhyde, and one after he escaped from Tennessee State Pen. Warning me that my family would be in danger if I went after him."

"Jesus, Graham, I wish you would've told me that earlier."

"No, no. I need to do this. I can't handle it any more, knowing he's out there."

"Your family, they're safe?"

"I sent them to Washington State. Molly likes seafood. Willy's going to the university in Seattle, but he's got a beach house on the peninsula. A friend of his left it to him."

"What's he going to major in?"

Graham glanced out the cab window at the slowing mass of cars.

"Psychology, ironically enough. Top of his class, he's going to graduate summa cum laude."

"It seems like it bothers you," Clarice said distractedly as she looked around for the street corner that was their destination.

"No, not really. Willy's just...he's sort of got that gift of being able to tell what you're thinking. He wants to work with kids."

"Smart."

The cab had reached a crawl as it hit rush hour traffic.

"It's solid, lady." The cab-driver said with the usual unaffected commiseration.

"That's okay, we're getting out here anyway."

"We are?" Graham asked.

"We'll get the subway back to my place. It's not far from headquarters."

Starling paid the cab driver while Graham got his bags out of the trunk. They dodged the slow moving traffic jam to the sidewalk.

"Here, I can take one of those."

Graham handed her his smaller carry-on bag and followed her down the stairs to the underground subway station.

The subway rattled down the tunnel, each seated person swaying to its Monday evening beat. It wasn't clean, but serviceable. The lights made everyone seem sickly. It was another chance to observe Clarice Starling. She didn't speak too much, and certainly didn't say a lot about herself.

There was an inner strength to her, but also a quiet resistence. Like him, she seemed tired, displaced and dazed. She wasn't actively trying to avoid looking at his scars, and he liked that. She didn't hide the fact that she was interested in the long pink marks that crisscrossed his face. When he noticed her looking, she pulled the collar of her shirt away from her shoulder, revealing a long straight line of scar tissue.

"He gave me one, too. While I was sleeping. He could've sewn it up so it didn't scar, but he wanted me to remember. Remember how close he was to me when he did that."

_He wanted you to remember that he saved your life and you saved his, and together forged a terrible bond. _

Will didn't say anything, but nodded solemnly. He could see now why Lecter took such an interest in this small self contained woman. She was bright, quick, and sharp. There was power underneath those sloe eyes and auburn hair. It was uncertain, unknown, but it was there. Graham could see it. He envied it. He wished he had some of the confidence, some of the independence. But that only came with complete detachment from family life. Half of every thing he did was motivated by his need to protect Molly and Willy.

She was alone. Alone with her thoughts too often. Hannibal Lecter had dominated her professional career. Unlike Graham, she had been almost aerodynamically honed to pursue Lecter the way a hunter pursues a man eating tiger. Like a prize fighter, Clarice Starling was anxious to do battle.

Lecter was her professional focus, but neither of them were kidding themselves. This was personal.

Each had similar self doubts on the opposite sides of the map. Clarice wasn't sure if she could pull the trigger. Graham wasn't sure if he could stop himself.

_How very quaint._

His two greatest enemies joined forces to create one exquisite double edged threat. Dr. Lecter lingered at the other end of the subway car, made completely invisible by his baseball cap and seedy clothing. Neither were his preference, but if one wanted to hide in plain sight, it became a necessity. When Clarice had pulled away her shirt collar to show Graham the long scar, he couldn't suppress a pleased intake of breath. Both of them were so confident that they were secure in their discussions. It was a delightful opportunity to study the investigators in their native habitat. Lecter idly stroked the thick scar that traced around his wrist. That was something they all had in common. Scars.

Graham was anxious, but he was hiding it well. He feared for the safety of his family, feared that Lecter would somehow find them, and rightfully so. Lecter had always admired how Will managed avoid being crippled by his fear, instead turning it to good investigative use.

Clarice was afraid, too, but in a far more dangerous way. She was uncertain, emotionally conflicted, uncertain of her goal. Exploitable, to be certain.

Lecter disembarked at the next stop, following the concealing crowd of chattering people. Once on the street, he casually withdrew a thin brown clove cigarette, lit it, and slipped away down 5th Avenue through a curling haze of smoke.

_Let the games begin. _

---

"Bathroom's down the hall, just next to your room. I'm hardly ever here, so the place stays clean."

Graham followed Clarice down the hallway through the sparsely furnished apartment. A ground floor suite, it was dark but secure. A black leather lay-z-boy sat perpendicular to the futon couch while a tv was positioned behind a plain wooden coffee table. The coffee table was populated with photographs, files, reports and Starling's laptop computer. A desk in the corner seemed forsaken, but Clarice quickly swept up all the materials and piled them on the desk.

"Sorry. Can't seem to work up the discipline to work at the desk," she explained.

"Takes a lot of effort to keep the office from coming home with you." Graham yawned as he shuffled down the hall to deposit his bags in the guest room.

"Speaking of which, would you like some coffee before we head over?" Clarice called from the living room as she sorted through gristly murder scene photos.

"That sounds great, actually," Graham said as he made his way through to the kitchen, the brightest room in the house. It was a little haven of oak panelled cupboards, warm blue walls and old fashioned appliances. Graham dropped down at the scrubbed wooden table and stared blearily at the cheery bouquet of dried white roses in the centre. Clarice bustled in, dumped a file folder on the broad table and went to the counter to make coffee.

"You like Colombian?"

"Colombian's fine. Can I have a look at this?" Graham indicated the folder. Clarice sucked a bit of spilled java off her finger.

"Please do. You take sugar in yours?"

"Yeah, thanks."

While Clarice doctored the coffee, Graham flipped open the folder and swallowed. A familiar photograph was attached to a pathologist report dated 1975.

"This is Benjamin Raspail," he murmured, a ripple of anxiety bubbling through him. The photograph of the precisely dissected corpse seated on a church pew left him cold.

"That's the whole case file, all the information from...before," Clarice said hesitantly. Clearly it still pained her to speak of the FBI.

"They really did a number on you, didn't they?" Graham asked as he tossed the folder back onto the table.

Clarice didn't say anything for a moment, but set Graham's coffee down in front of him and retreated to the other side of the table.

"I think," she began, looking down into her black coffee. "It's because everything Dr. Lecter predicted, all the contempt he had for the FBI turned out to be justified. That bothers me more than anything."

"Starling, anyone could've told you the FBI is a bureaucratic pack of lying ingrates and political lobbyists. Lecter doesn't have any kind of special monopoly on the truth."

"No, but he enjoys using it against you. Using it against me. Will, when you first met him...what was it like for you?"

---

1972

"_Mr. Graham, you look quite exhausted. Can I offer you something to drink? Eat?" _

_Dr. Lecter's rich drawling tones were benevolent, but there was something reptilian in his gaze. His face was skull-like, and there was something menacing about his deep set eyes. Special Agent Will Graham fingered a small hole in his jacket. The grand mahogany office and its occupant clothed elegantly in grey smoking jacket made him feel small and pedestrian. Dr. Lecter's broad mahogany desk was flanked by an old fashioned brass globe and a tall Tiffany lamp. Behind him, a potted vine plant crawled over the window frame and over the transom, its small purple flowers adding a slightly tangy scent to the air. Book shelves lined the elongated room, filled with classic volumes on psychology and physiology, handsomely bound encyclopaedias and 19th century cookbooks. The lights were low and elegant, and the couch on which Graham sat stiffly was a practical leather appointment. Outside, snow had begun to fall for the second time that night, adding to the picturesque scene._

_Graham shifted uncomfortably. He liked this room. It should have relaxed him, made him feel welcome. He couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was, but the affluence only added to his discomfort. Or perhaps it was the unblinking way that Dr. Lecter was looking at him, those clear blue eyes steadily surveying him under a defined brow. Graham licked his dry lips and pulled out a well worn notebook from his inner pocket. _

"_No thank you, Dr. Lecter. I'd just as soon as get going before the Baltimore PD start in at the crime scene."_

"_Very well, Mr Graham. May I call you Will?"_

"_Sure." Graham noticed that Dr. Lecter did not invite him to call him by his first name. _

"_Excellent. Shall we get started? I understand you're anxious to get back to work."_

"_Okay. Here is the M.E. report, along with a profile of the crime scene and photographs."_

_Accepting the folder, Dr. Lecter set it on his desk and flicked it open. The distorted face of Louis Whitter, metal worker, stared back up him, terrified expression twisted permanently into onto his face- at least, until the body was released to the family. It remained to seen as to whether they would pay to have the bronze metal casting removed from his head. _

_A small upward twitch at the corner of Dr. Lecter's mouth was the only reaction Graham noticed. Other than that, the psychologist betrayed nothing. Casually he tossed the photos back onto the blotter and leaned back into his chair._

"_This was improvised, not planned. That will make things substantially more difficult for you in a traditional respect. You have no controls with which to compare or make predictions." _

"_We don't know if this is the first or the second or...whatever," Graham said with a shrug. Dr. Lecter could see the idea genuinely unsettled his guest, sent a worm of fear crawling up his spine. Will Graham didn't like serial killers. He didn't like fear. But he was well acquainted with both and needed his neurotic impulses in order to function effectively. _

"_Tell me, when will you begin interviewing character witnesses?" Dr. Lecter inquired as he drew the pathologist report out of the folder, licking his finger and lifting the first page._

"_The police are rounding up names and numbers, but I've already talked to a few people. Apparently, Whitter was reported missing two weeks ago by his employer. They found him behind a big mixing vat."_

"_A smelting vat," Dr. Lecter corrected briskly. Graham frowned. The doctor smiled coyly and tapped the report. "Very unorthodox."_

"_Excuse me, sir, but just what is orthodox?" _

"_Touche" the doctor conceded, his eyes flickering across the typewritten words. "Our friend here doesn't mind getting attention, but I doubt that is his original intent. Tell me about Mr. Whitter."_

_Graham shifted again in his seat, trying to find some measure of comfort under the stare of the curious doctor. _

"_His coworkers all said he was very much a man's man. No one said anything excessively positive or negative about him, but I got the impressions he wasn't well liked."_

"_Brash. A loner. Prone to violence, perhaps?"_

"_I don't know. Maybe."_

"_Did you consider that a woman might be your perpetrator? Perhaps this isn't serial at all, considering the convention it defies."_

"_You mean maybe a girlfriend or something? I wish it was that simple, but instinct tells me it isn't."_

"_Very wise. Tell me, do you have any photographs of the deceased prior to death?"_

_Graham flipped open his notebook and extracted a creased photograph of the industrial plant's smelting staff. _

"_He's the one to the side."_

_Dr. Lecter smoothed it out and peered down at it. _

"_I believe, Will, that his father used to beat him. Look at the way he shies away from contact with the large fellow next to him. His smile is slack, and his eyes are sour. He's watching the small blonde woman in the centre. He wants to hurt her. He remembers the nights lying awake listening to discordant screams from below. The days spent in adolescent despair, rejected by the girls after high school football rallies. His first love lost, he knows now what he believes he must do to keep them in his power."_

_The delivery of this diagnosis left Graham with chills. The lilting poetry of the description was disturbing, but gave Graham a vivid image of the victim._

"_You can tell all of that from a photograph?" he ventured finally, forcing himself to meet the good doctor's gaze._

"_It's a gift. Like your fear. Yes, I can tell you are afraid. You step across the threshold of madness each time you walk over a crime scene. Trust your fear, Will. It will serve you."_

_Lecter's hungry eyes bore into him. Graham fought the urge to fidget._

"_Is there anything else you can tell me, Dr. Lecter?"_

"_He had a lover. She probably left him recently. A professional woman with a measure of style, and perhaps artistry. I predict that her income was about to become higher than his."_

"_Thanks, doctor. I'll get back to you with our information," his body creaking wearily, Graham labouriously stood and started for the exit. _

"_You're welcome." Dr. Lecter tilted his head in a catlike gesture as he stood politely. "Will, before you leave, may I ask you a personal question?"_

_Graham paused at the door, and turned to face the lean, wiry man with his cunning eyes. _

"_Okay."_

"_Do you dream much?"_

_Graham carefully debated for a moment on how he would compose his answer, and then decided that succinctness would serve him best. He couldn't explain it, but to omit the content of his nightly terrors seemed like it would be less hazardous to his health._

"_All the time."_

"_Thank-you, Will."_

_Graham left, his worn black shoes devoid of shine, silent on the hardwood floors. Dr. Lecter returned to his seat and shifted the case file to the side. Pulling open a drawer, he extracted an antique telephone, and began to twist the dial one handed. After a few rings, the annoying whine of a secretary met his ears. He winced, but then fought back the urge to start verbally dissecting whatever specimen this was._

"_I would like to speak to Gabriel Bath."_

---

Eagle Investigations was situated in a backwater ghetto down the river from Clarice's apartment complex. The towers of down town New York seemed somewhat distant from here, and the vicinity was an immediate departure from the budding gentry where Clarice lived despite its close proximity. However, the inside of the office space was far more personable- there were no cubicles, but a grouping of desks under a series of skylights. The carpet underfoot was a muddy brown, and the majority of the furniture was mismatched, but comfortable looking and free of rents. Laptop illuminated the young faces of dedicated people, disheartened by the FBI, no longer charmed by the police force. Here, they were given the opportunity to do good work and advance without suppressing their ideals. There was nothing orthodox about Eagle, and it got results.

The company was started by former Detective Jaime Rodriguez, a disenchanted ex-con whose hardline policies and disregard for suspect rights had resulted in his permanent suspension from the Chicago PD and a three year stint in Joliet. During his incarceration, the large African/Cuban passed his time with mail order college courses, and achieved an applied science degree in private investigation. He consumed vast amounts of psychological literature and practiced Tai Chi in his five by eight cell. He had met Clarice Starling two days after she took up residence in New York: she had been tearing down 5th Avenue after a mugger who had stolen her leather side bag. Rodriguez, who at the time had been waiting for the bus, halted the incident by cuffing the unfortunate thief around the ears with his two bearlike hands. The man had dropped like a stone, and a winded Starling offered her thanks. The two had set to talking, and when Rodriguez discovered Starling's identity, a beautiful friendship was on the verge of commencing. He offered her a job which she gratefully accepted, and promised her leeway to work on the case that the FBI would just as soon forget. Plus, he liked her, and she liked him- she'd made it clear that work and play were separate, and he'd made her a happy woman by confiding that he wasn't interested in her, or any other woman, for that matter.

"Listen, Starling, catch 5. It's Herman in records," Rodriguez boomed from his office door.

"Thanks, R," she called back without slowing her pace.

Starling waved to a few people as Graham tailed her to a desk situated in the corner. A large number of photographs had been stapled to cardboard presentation stands. Some were of Hannibal Lecter, ranging from newspaper coverage for citations in psychological advancements, to tabloid headers, mug shots, and finally, possible sightings- none of which looked promising.

"Grab a chair. The conference room is over through there, and there's a kitchen through that door," Clarice said, waving a hand in a vague direction. Graham slid one of the stray leather chairs up to the opposite side of the desk, a shiver of discomfort running down his spine as those same cold blue eyes with their maroon specs of light stared down at him from a hundred different photographic windows.

Clarice snatched the phone up out of its cradle and punched the line. Graham listened intently to the one sided conversation as he studied one of the more gruesome photographs- that of the former head of the Justice Department, Paul Krendler. The man's cranial cap had been removed, and his brain, a bloody wrinkled gob of grey matter, was made obscenely visible by the scrutinising FBI flashbulb.

"Are you absolutely positive? What about hospitals in Mexico? No records anywhere of a missing hand. No, I guess not. Well, thanks anyway, Herman, I owe you some bagels."

Clarice hung up with a click, and stared at the phone with frustration.

"Clarice, if you don't mind my asking, why are you so sure that he's still in country?"

She glanced up at Graham, and didn't say anything for a moment. Then she pulled open one of her desk drawers, and removed a glossy colour photograph. It depicted an oddly positioned dead starling. The reflection of the camera could be seen in its dead eyes.

"It's a dead bird, Clarice. Sad, but hardly something to get worked up over."

"Look at the claws."

Graham squinted, holding the photograph closer to his face. A small blue flower could be seen clutched in the minute claws of the bird.

"What is that? That flower?"

"It's a forget-me-not."

Graham set the photo down on the scratched blotter and muttered, "Jesus."

"He waited until the FBI closed down the case on him. He wants me to know that he's still here, and he's waiting for me to find him. I'm just having a hell of a lot of trouble at the moment."

Clarice propped her elbows on her desk and pressed her forehead into her palms.

"What was that about Mexican hospitals?" Graham asked, indicating the phone as he began start compiling a mental dossier on the case.

"When he..when Lecter escaped the last time, he cut off his own hand."

"Romantic." Graham interjected wryly.

"Anyway, I was really doped up at the time, so I forgot to report it. When I finally remembered it and went to call it in, they basically told me to shut up about it. The bureaucrats weren't interested in pursuing him, not after Krendler. They never added it to the profile."

"You think that after he split...he did what? Went to a hospital to have his hand surgically reattached?

"Maybe. I don't know. There absolutely no records in any hospitals here, Canada, or Mexico that show a man came in for appendage repair in any time the last year."

"Maybe he didn't bother trying to get it fixed. Is there any reason to believe otherwise?"

Starling stared at her blotter, and fingered a burn mark in the middle.

"I don't think he would've gone without his hand if he could help it. One handed, he's more distinctive. Plus, he becomes less mobile. Remember, he has a comprehensive knowledge of medical procedures. He'd know that he'd have to keep his own hand on ice, and he'd have about a 24 hour time frame."

"So he would've hitched a ride back to DC, somehow. Maybe there was an ATV stashed in the woods, something like that?"

"We thought bicycle, but that's too...pedestrian."

"Maybe we should cast the net wider. You're overlooking personal acquaintances. Did he know anyone in DC who might've helped him out?"

"He's a sadistic, psychopathic serial killer, who would..." Clarice trailed off in the middle of her diatribe. "Oh my god?"

"What? What is it?"

"We gotta go. We have to go back to DC."

---

Barney Jackson found that the best things came to him through quiet cooperation. When asked for something, he generally gave it without question, providing it wasn't too large or unusual a request. He enjoyed making people happy. This quiet contemplative methodology served him well when was an orderly at the mental institution. For all he knew, his polite deference to Dr. Hannibal Lecter was the only reason he was alive right now. Now an intern at Washington General, he found that simplicity cut down the stress levels most medical students suffered on a daily basis. This, in turn, made him a far more skillfull physician. He hoped that the means by which he had paid for medical school were not begrudged by the good doctor, but he didn't think they would be. Lecter probably found the idea amusing, and trusted Barney not to waste his ambition by becoming anything less than brilliant. Another contributing factor to Barney's continuing quality of life as one absent from the missing persons list.

When Clarice Starling and a scar-faced stranger showed up at his doorstep past three am, he was not only prepared to cooperate, he had been expecting them for quite some time.

"Agent Starling. Or Miss Starling, I guess it is now. I've been waiting for you."

"Barney, this is Will Graham, he's a friend of mine."

"How do you do?" Barney said politely in his measured voice, his dark countenance humble and accommodating. "Come on in, we've got a lot to discuss."

"You knew we were coming?" Graham asked, glancing around at the shabby, but clean ground floor apartment. An owl-shaped wall clock chimed 3:30.

"Yes sir, Mr. Graham. I knew Miss Starling would be along any day now."

"How'd you know that, Barney?" Starling asked as she took the proffered seat on the couch. Graham chose to remain standing, but Barney sat back in his chair, adjusting the collar of his slightly blood stained scrubs.

"When Dr. Lecter showed up here with one hand in an ice chest, I figured you had something to do with it. Later he told me I was free to call the police."

"You sewed his hand back on?" Graham asked. "You weren't afraid of him?"

"Dr. Lecter has always been civil to me. I came home from work and found him standing just where you are, looking at my diplomas. He said he needed my help, but would understand if I didn't want to give it. I told him it would be right uncivil of me not to. Didn't bother going to the police, 'cause they wouldn't be no use anyway. You know how they are. Didn't want to give him a reason to dislike me."

"Did he say anything else, Barney? Anything about me?" Clarice asked avidly.

"Well, funny you should ask. I tried to get in touch with you a month later, but the Bureau said you'd resigned. Dr. Lecter left you a tape, under the magazine there."

Baffled, Clarice moved the National Geographic aside from the coffee table and lifted a regular compact audio tape, holding it as if it were a hot coal. This was a familiar feeling, very similar to the excited apprehension that had seized her when she had first received a letter from Dr. Lecter in the Behavioural Sciences evidence basement.

"Barney," she said softly. "May I use your stereo?"

"Certainly, Miss Starling. It's just here, I'll put it in. I haven't listened to it before now, it being not my business."

"Thank you."

Graham could see Clarice visibly shiver. There was something more personal between her and Hannibal Lecter, something he had not been privy to. The exchange of information that had passed between him and the doctor was a game of wills, meaningless when it came to real life circumstances. Lecter had already proven that he would kill Graham given the opportunity. But for Starling he had very nearly sacrificed his own left hand. What possible reason could he have? What twisted affection did he feel for her that caused him to jeopardize his own safety?

Graham couldn't pin it down, but something about that fact bothered him greatly. Was it a boon, a tool they could use to lure the tiger into the trap? Or was it a liability?

_Guess I'll find out. _

Barney pulled out a Queen tape and tossed it onto the coffee table. Carefully, he slipped the unmarked cassette into the stereo, closed it, and pressed the 'play' button. A moment of static, bated breath, and then the sibilant tones rippled through the room.

"_Hello, Clarice. Has the screaming ceased? Do the orange slices taste any fresher in your mouth? I didn't think so. But I digress._

_You have found this tape because your unceasing determination to do The Right Thing and fulfill the demands of so-called justice have motivated your intellect. I am of the opinion that it could be better spent, but then, our last meeting wouldn't have been half as entertaining. Blood stains are hard to wash out, aren't they?_

_If you are utilizing your resources, you will have enlisted the help of Will Graham. Know that he joins you at the risk of two individuals that are very close to him. You should feel flattered- I know I would._

"_On that note, Will, the suburbs are full of terribly conspicuous people. I'm pleased that Willy has made such an admirable career choice, though his taste in music could use fine tuning. Molly's associates are of such charming character. Red hair suits her. I took the liberty of purchasing you some better aftershave, which you may find in locker 1279 at Union Station."_

"_Clarice, even in these functional times, you can still find comfort in fine quality footwear. I know you're not lacking in funds. Thoraby's Boutique ought to serve you nicely, they have a broad selection of Gucci leather. Remember our first meetings, Clarice? I know you do. I'd venture to say you think of them often. Think of them now. You're always in my thoughts, little Starling. Thank Barney for me- I appreciate his discretion. Arrivederci._"

The audio ceased and the buzz of unrecorded tape proceeded to fill the room. Clarice exhaled a breath she wasn't aware she had been holding.

"Graham, if you want to bail out now..."

Graham sat down abruptly.

"I think he's reaching. Molly's hair is brunette now. He's not on to them."

Barney cocked his head. "Wonder what he meant by locker 1279."

"What do you mean?" Clarice asked shakily. The others didn't know it, but the abstractions Lecter's insidious voice had brushed upon had touched deep seated nerves and rubbed them raw. She felt exposed. She wrapped her arms around herself.

"Well, the lockers at Union Station only go up to 1000."

Graham frowned. "Clarice?"

"Huh?" she blinked at them like a deer in the headlights. "Sorry?"

"You've got more experience with Lecter than I do...can you make sense of any of this?"

"Sometimes he would play word games, but not with numbers."

"Dr. Lecter once talked about the universal language of code...hang on," Barney wandered into his kitchen and returned with a notebook in one hand. "Jung's theory on symbolic language. He mentioned that many codes are based on the basic connection of letters and numbers. I took this down for the psychology class at Berkley:

"I once came across a patient during my internship who spoke in only in numerical terms. He had spent so much time translating code for a military operation during Desert Storm that the stress became unbearable. He became catatonic for months- when he returned to consciousness, he spoke in numbers and nothing else. The poor fellow's distress increased quite _exponentially_ when he realized no one could comprehend anything he said. His background as a code-breaker made it apparent that there was a way to break the code of his speech, and if I could so, it would be a significant step in effecting a cure for his particular psychosis."

"Numbers and letters..." Graham trailed off, frowning. Clarice pulled a small writing pad from her inner pocket. The two men bent their heads to look over her shoulder as she wrote out 1-2-7-9, quickly scribbled the alphabet and began to count under her breath. After a moment, she came up with the letters 'ABGI'.

"Pardon me, Miss Starling, but I can't say that makes a whole lot of sense." Barney said morosely, looking sideways at the piece of paper.

"Well, we'll try it later."

"What the hell was he talking about, footwear?" Graham wondered aloud, borrowing Clarice's notepad and flipping absently through it.

"Just something he said at the Baltimore hospital. He said I had a good bag, but cheap shoes."

"He had some discriminating tastes, did Dr. Lecter." Barney interjected, going back to the stereo to remove the tape. "He showed up here asking if I was up for some micro surgery, he was wearing a fine tuxedo and silk shirt. Thing must've cost more than my rent."

"Thoraby's. I've never heard of a Thoraby's Boutique, have you?" Graham asked.

Clarice shook her head. "No, but I'm no paragon of apparel. Barney?"

"Can't afford Gucci on my salary."

"I hate to be the one to say it, but back to the drawing board."

--

The plane ride back to New York was uneventful and dreary. Graham toyed with his laptop computer, trying to pick up an internet signal, while Clarice tried in vain to get some sleep. After a few hours, she finally voiced a nagging inquiry.

"What did Lecter say about the shoe store, Thoraby's?"

"I haven't been able to find any 'Thoraby's Boutique' anywhere, Clarice."

"No no. What did he say...after that."

Graham recalled the words, his photographic memory serving him well. "A broad selection of Gucci leather."

"Where is Gucci's North American headquarters?"

Graham keyed the laptop and hummed for a minute as he rolled down the FAQ.

"685, 5th Avenue, 8th floor, New York, NY...10022," he added as an afterthought.

"Why?"

"Well, they probably have a list of shoe wholesalers, so maybe Thoraby's is on the list."

"We'll check them out tomorrow. Get some sleep, huh?"

"Yeah."

But every time she closed her eyes, the vision of Lecter's cruel kiss played over and over in her mind's eye.


	2. Chapter 2

"It's gonna to take awhile to run down the list, Mr...?" the receptionist said in an acid tone, the light bouncing off her Chanel earrings and making Clarice dizzy.

"Graham, Will Graham. This is Clarice Starling."

"Starling, huh? Read a story about you in the paper," the receptionist punctuated the remark with a snapping pop of her bubble gum. Starling made a noncommital noise and smiled insincerely. The secretary clicked her talon-like fingernails and withdrew a pad of paper emblazoned with the Gucci logo.

"You can leave your number and Fran will call you back."

"Who's Fran, if you don't mind?" Clarice queried impatiently, tapping her pen in the palm of her hand.

"The head of dis-tri-bution and all that stuff," the receptionist rolled her eyes as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Thank you very much. You've been very helpful," Graham said cheerily, gently taking Clarice's elbow before she worsened relations by speaking her mind to the pitifully generic woman, and led her away.

"You didn't need to do that," Clarice muttered once they were outside.

"Yes, I did. I recognize that look, I know the feeling." Graham asked, turning up his collar as they both wove through the onslaught of people towards the subway station.

"It's different." Clarice insisted as she pushed change into the ticket kiosk. "They weren't writing it like you were in bed with a serial killer. Plus, they weren't writing anything after Lounds."

"No, they weren't," Graham said softly. Clarice bit her lip, realizing her mistake.

"I'm sorry-"

Her next words were cut out by the roar of the oncoming subway train. Graham's words of "it's okay" were lost in the din. He shrugged his shoulders as they boarded the subway and were spirited back to Eagle.

---

Henry Bath the Third was greatly disliked by his neighbours. Loud, obnoxious and often drunk, he was a figure in the London underworld, with a reputation of nervous habits and unpredictable mood swings. After he was accused of strangling a prostitute in a back alley, the magistrates ordered that he be exiled to the Americas with all haste.

As improvidence would have it, Henry Bath met a scullery maid named Mathilda, and for some yet unknown reason, Mathilda consented to marriage with the corpulent alcoholic. After a year, she gave birth to a son, whom they named James. Years passed, the Bath's Virginia farm estate grew in size, and eventually both Henry and Mathilda were swept away by a bout of yellow fever.

The following year, James Bath married the woman with whom he'd been having a secret affair for two years. They gave birth to two children, a boy named Lawrence and a girl named Dorothy. After the Civil War, the Bath estate had swelled in size, James having turned the family money to weapons and munitions manufacturing. While the rest of the South suffered, the Baths prospered, becoming the ruling force behind the tiny city council of Protestant, Virginia.

The winter after James' 58th year, Lawrence (a child known for his stutter and cruelty to his sister) shot his father in the head with the family winchester. His mother had passed away the previous year after taking an unusual fall from the cliff at the edge of the Bath estate. Dorothy was entitled to half the estate only if she was able to produce a heir. To prevent this from happening, Lawrence drugged his sister and performed a home hysterectomy with a pair of kitchen sheers. She died within a day, and the black servants carried her body to the city council, demanding justice be done upon Lawrence Bath.

However, Lawrence withdrew all of the Bath money from local accounts, transferred it to Maryland and sold the Bath estate before any charges could be made. Today, the two hundred acres are still considered haunted by local Protestant residents.

Having moved his fortunes to Baltimore, Lawrence Bath spent out his days, grew old and repulsive, and was completely solitary until Molly Brand, a fortune-hunter and a woman of little repute married him and had his son. She promptly inherited his munitions company and all attached when he died a year later.

Unlike his predecessors, Argentine Bath showed no indication of possessing his ancestor's violent and crude tendencies. Groomed by his mother, he was a soft soul whose speech was difficult to understand because he was marked by a series of twitches, stutters and other physical afflictions. When Molly Bath died in the middle of having her hair curled, control of Bath Munitions fell to Argentine. He began to sell stock, turning the munition's excesses into a charitable fund called the Argentine Bath Foundation. He met a woman in Lubbock, Tennessee during a conference about poverty awareness and married her the following year. Together, they had three children, Theresa, Frances and Gabriel.

Theresa and Frances were kind, intelligent children with enough genetic strength on their mother's side to have avoided any physical or mental aberrations. This was not so for Gabriel, an undersized runty boy with flat brown eyes and hair that always seemed to be greasy. At the age of 7, he could be found prodding the dead bodies of mice beneath the front porch. At 12, he savaged his brother with a pair of scissors when Frances berated him for not saying 'please' when asking for the milk. At 16, he raped his sister and nearly strangled her. That was when the family reluctantly put him in a special private hospital for disturbed individuals.

He was released in 1970 at age 43 when the hospital closed. His father and mother having passed, and Theresa having committed suicide less than a year previous when her husband divorced her upon learning about her disturbed brother's physical and sexual assault upon her, Gabriel Bath found himself under the supervision of Frances, now the chief executive officer of Bath Munitions. Frances, not wishing to reinstate his brother in another mental institution, sent him to a family friend, the psychiatrist that his sister had seen a month before her decision to drink bleach. His methods had helped Theresa make wonderful progress: that was until her ex-husband had called, demanding monetary reimbursement for the past fifteen years he had spent with her. After her suicide, he disappeared from Baltimore and had not been heard from since. Frances (though he would never admit it, kind soul that he was) was glad. He learned last year that he was nearing the final stages in a degenerative disease he didn't bother to have identified. He wished to enjoy life as fully as possible, without anger or hatred sullying it. During this time, he made the arrangements for all of the Bath assets to be held in trust by the family shrink until Gabriel had made enough progress to reclaim them, or died, in which case they would be surrendered to the federal government.

Gabriel Bath disliked the idea of a psychiatrist, but feared the possibility of confinement. In order to make him feel more at ease, Frances invited him to one of the post opera meals that he and the other members of the board of the Baltimore Philharmonic Orchestra enjoyed at the behest of their most affluent patron.

Gabriel did not like wearing a bow-tie. It itched, and his new tuxedo suit felt stiff and sweaty. Unconsciously he finger a piece of lint in his pocket. He blinked excessively, and felt uncomfortable sitting, standing, or being stationary in any way. The low lights of the residence hid some of his nervous habits from the other patrons. The food had been strange and diverse, so Gabriel stuck with simple dipping crackers. He shied away from conversation, until Frances, the tall, well aged and handsome opposite of his brother gently took his arm and steered him in the direction of a stocky man wearing black suspenders and stripped down to his shirt sleeves. He stood at the end of the long buffet table with a small butane stove and a skillet full of frying vegetables.

There wasn't anything extraordinary about this man. He was a few inches shorter than many of the guests, but not altogether diminished. His face was gently creased, his slicked back hair black and inconsequential. His eyes, however, disturbed Gabriel, their clear blue intensity making him want to fidget.

"Gabe, I want you to meet someone," Frances said in a slow, pandering voice, nudging his brother forward slightly. "Hannibal, this is my brother Gabriel, whom I mentioned to you last night."

"Yes, I remember, Frances, thank you." The man said in a cultured voice that didn't ring any bells for Gabriel. Not that he was familiar with accents. "How do you do, Mr. Bath?"

"I...uh. I'm fine. I'm okay. Everything's okay. You can call me Gabriel. Okay?" the twitch in his cheek had started. He tilted his head, an automatic attempt to cover his agitation. It creeped him out when Dr. Lecter called him 'Mr. Bath'.

"This is Dr. Lecter, Gabe. Remember talking about him?"

"Name rhymes with stuff," Gabriel pointed out. "I remember t-t-talking about it last night. Rhymes with cannibal. And...what was it, Frank? I don't remember what you called it."

"Spectre. A spectre, like a ghost," Frances replied indulgently.

"Others have made that observation before, Gabriel. Would you care to expand on it?" Dr. Lecter asked, his voice patient but brisk.

"I bet cannibals have more fun than ghosts. I feel like a ghost sometimes, feel like I'm going to fall through the floor. Sometimes you need a little blood." Gabriel said, looking around uncertainly.

"Quite." Dr. Lecter said in perfect agreement, a patented smile on his face. Frances patted his brother's shoulder, blushing slightly with embarrassment.

"But we don't need blood right now, huh, Gabe? Why don't we bring you back to the car."

"It was nice meeting you, Dr. Spectre. I mean, Lecter."

"A pleasure meeting you, Gabriel, and I look forward to repeating it."

---

Early in 1972, about the same time that Special Agent Graham was investigating the wrongful death of the smelting worker, Louis Whitter, Frances Bath passed away at his vacation home in Upstate New York.

Dr. Lecter had very much liked Theresa Bath. On many occasions, they were able to discuss things like music and art, both of which Theresa donated liberally to. She had an astounding memory, a polite upbringing and a sound education, which showed in the musical patterns of her speech. A music teacher at an elite private school, she was loved, respected, and even adored. Except of course, by her husband. Dr. Lecter considered many times the benefits of disposing of this brute, but was dissuaded when Theresa's obvious love of the man would've proved far more traumatic with a sudden loss than with careful psychological weaning. In addition, she would tell him stories of her younger brother, the unsavoury and deranged little Gabriel whose antics had inflicted so much damage on the woman's fragile psyche. When Gabriel became Dr. Lecter's patient, he immediately set to breaking down the barriers that institutional routine had tentatively raised. He found his personal dislike of the man increased by the moment, as Gabriel gleefully spilled out the details of his attack on his siblings, his abuse of the little children at his school, the pain he had caused other members of the mental hospital. All of this accompanied by an orchestra of twitches and stutters made Dr. Lecter quite certain of his intentions. He set about forming a treatment plan.

After months worth of careful therpay, Gabriel Bath became a very malleable person, open to suggestion, his psychotic behaviour regulated by a heavy dose of anti-depression medication and hypnotic drugs.

When Special Agent Graham left his office, Dr. Lecter had turned to phone with a specific purpose in mind. When Gabriel picked up the line on the other end, he was greeted with a familiar calm and levelled voice.

"Gabriel. It's Hannibal Lecter. I was terribly displeased to hear about the death of your brother."

"Yeah," the noncommital reply came with its usual drab lacklustre. "Yeah. There wasn't any pain. The doctors said so."

"That's good to know. Don't you agree?"

"Yeah, Dr. Lecter. Yeah. That was good. Good to kn-kn-know."

"Listen, Gabriel. Before he died, your brother entrusted all of your fortune to me. In the _unlikely_ event of your death, I would retain control of your assets and later submit it to the federal government"

"Okay."

"Tomorrow, in your mail, you will find a letter. It will tell you to authorize me to take care of your money, instead of giving it to the government. I want you to sign it for me. Will you do that, Gabriel?"

"Yeah. Yeah, okay."

"Thank you."

When Gabriel Bath went missing, no one asked questions. Dr. Lecter speculated on the effects ground human flesh had as a fertilizer. His rose garden bloomed brighter than ever.


	3. Chapter 3

William Hurst had spent three gruelling years at the University of Washington, but he still found the fine red brick expanse of the campus a familiar and inviting vista. He traversed the steps down into the 'Red Square' and paused as the grand facade of Suzzallo Library rose before him with its overwhelming gothic architecture and traditional stained glass windows. To most people, it seemed an intimidating structure, one that commanded respect and demanded that time spent inside its cathedralesque interior be as sacred as worship.

But for Willy Hurst, handsome blonde grad student and aspiring psychologist, the Library was a sanctuary of study. He preferred it to the Allen Library and medical research libraries, and enjoyed volunteering there as a research assistant during his few empty hours. As he pushed through the tall double doors, the many tiered roof met his upward gaze. Adjusting the overdue books under one arm, he smiled for a moment at the dusty ceiling and the shadows that the fading light cast through the stained glass windows. Then he made his way over to the desk, dropped off his books, and picked up his volunteer tag.

Just like clockwork.

"Excuse me, young man, but I was wondering if you could perhaps point me in the direction of the Brendon Psychology Collection."

The cane bearing old man smiled bashfully up at him through a thick beard, his voice betraying a thick Franco-Germanic accent.

Willy was charmed despite himself.

"It's just over here...anything I can help you with?"

"In fact, there is. I have here a special dispensation from the dean of the library for the rental of the entire James Baldwin collection."

"Wow. You're definitely going to need some help with those. You got a vehicle, Mr...?"

"Professor Tercelle, of the Unversität von Luxemburg."

"Willy Hurst."

"Pleasure to meet you, William." Tercelle said gravely as he followed Willy down the hall to the Brendon Collection.

"Likewise, Professor. Luxembourg, huh? Long way to come for a bunch of library books."

"Unfortunately, this is the only complete set in the western hemisphere."

"Is that so," Willy said as he began to load books onto a handcart. "I don't think I could get through half of these. I hope they'll be some use."

"I expect so," Tercelle said, tapping his cane perfunctorily against his leg. "Tell me, William, are you planning to enter the psychology field?"

"Yes sir, I am. Pediatric psychology and therapy."

"Enjoy working with children, do you?"

Willy nudged the fire escape doors open with a foot. Tercelle watched idly as the young man wrestled with the cart, and finally got it out the doors and onto the ramp.

"Well, I know I didn't have the best childhood. Would've been really nice to have someone to talk to, someone who understood me. Best time to get 'em is when they're kids. By the time they grow up, not much you can really do to help them, not if they don't want to change."

"That's a very logical outlook, William. It's just the van over there. It should be open."

"Thanks."

As Willy finished loading the books into the conspicuously empty van, he noticed the Professor watching him through the side mirror, a smile forming on his lips. He frowned as the man began to peel away the shaggy whiskers away from his face. Horror bloomed in his heart as he realized the countenance grinning at him was that of Hannibal the Cannibal Lecter. Before he could make a move, Lecter flipped the cane up and landed a solid blow on the back of his skull. Willy crumpled, a small trickle of blood blossoming across the back of his neck. Unhurredly, Dr. Lecter collected Willy's unconscious body and piled him into the back of the van with the remainder of the Baldwin books.

Pulling on a pair of oversized sunglasses, Lecter started the ignition and waited for it to warm up. In the mean time, he calmly licked the blood from his fingers.

"One week. That will be sufficient. Don't you agree, William?"

Willy moaned in pain, his clouded eyes rolling up to regard his assailant.

"Yes, I thought you would approve. Shall we?"

---

"Investigator Graham, this is Fran Delacroix. I'm sorry, but there's no record of any Thoraby's Boutique on our wholesaler's list. Again, sorry it took us so long to get back to you."

Clarice punched the rewind button on her tape machine, and wandered back over to the coffee table where the two investigators had spread out the evidence accumulated so far.

"Thoraby's. Hey, Graham, how do you think that's spelled?"

Graham leaned back against the couch and closed his eyes.

"Maybe..T-H-O-R-A-B-Y. Why? Do you think it's an anagram?"

"It's possible. Lecter had us all on our toes during the Gumb case with his word jumbles."

Clarice unplugged her laptop and brought it with her over to the couch. Working quickly, she called up her anagram program and entered 'thoraby' into the field entry.

A spark went off in Graham's head.

"What about 'Bathory'?" he asked, leaning up from his reclined position.

"Like the Countess?"

"Elizabeth Bathory, she used to drink the blood of young girls."

"Virgin girls, actually..." Clarice corrected, and then trailed off as a sudden wave of realization washed over her. Without explanation, she jumped up and went over to the wall safe where she kept her personal documents, firearms and various other incriminating articles. Twisting the dial, she popped open the lock and withdrew a folded sheet of thick white paper.

"He's made a reference to Elizabeth Bathory before...I didn't think it meant anything, just his way of...you know, needling me."

Graham accepted the letter gingerly. "You didn't submit this to the FBI?"

Clarice shrugged.

"I didn't see the point. They wouldn't be able to track it, and it could've put me in jail."

"Okay, that's a good point." Graham set it down with the rest of the evidence. "So we have Elizabeth Bathory, locker 1279, and?"

"Shit?"

"Shit."

The phone rang. Clarice went to get it while Graham peered down at the letter.

---

1972

"Her name is Amanda Crawley, she was just hired by the Baltimore Philharmonic orchestra. She's a violinist. Says she was with friends at the time of the murder, and they check out."

"Amanda Crawley? Funny thing," Dr. Lecter said as he accepted the photograph from Graham. "I serve on the board of directors, I approved her application. Excellent young talent. Although, I doubt that she bronzed Mr. Whitter."

"Yeah, me too. I'm thinking co-worker," Graham said abysmally. "If they check out, then this is another one for the unsolved dumpster. There's just nothing there."

"Perhaps your friend is a 'repeater'," Dr. Lecter suggested, flipping through the report. Graham propped his elbow on the armrest and grasped a handful of his own hair, frustrated.

"Do you think so?" he asked hopelessly, glancing up at Dr. Lecter's kindly countenance.

"Let us say I suspect so. Although," Dr. Lecter paused, and steepled his fingers, resting his chin on his fingertips. "Time may tell you."

"God. That's terrible. I must be terrible at my job, if I have to wait for a murder to occur in-"

"William," Dr. Lecter interrupted sharply, standing up suddenly. "Murder is not something you or anyone else can prevent. Blaming yourself for it is not only redundant, it is arrogant and self indulgent."

Shocked into silence, Graham stared at the doctor. Then slowly, he nodded his agreement.

"You're right, Dr. Lecter. I'm sorry. I'm moping, I have no right to."

"Take some time off, Will." Dr. Lecter said gently.

"Think it'll do me good?"

"I believe... by Christmas, something will surface."

And on December 27th, on a frigid windy day, something indeed did surface- in the middle of Lake Michigan.

---

Out on the Washington Peninsula, a little town named Sequim boasts 365 days of sun. A cozy idyllic cluster of green fields, corner stores and seafood restaurants, it sits nestled between the north end of Puget Sound, and the Strait of Juan de Fuca. In addition to having unique weather patterns, it is also the self-proclaimed capital of lavender. Miles north on highway 101 is Dungeness Spit, famous for its vistas of the intimidating Olympic Mountains, its kitchen worthy crab population, and the so-called sandy spit that stretches out across the water for miles.

A ten minute walk from the Spit, a sizeable bungalow lays a mile from the highway. Although the field behind it is shaded by lush evergreen trees, its face has been bleached yellow by the sun. Over the years it has been added to, adding to its mismatched charming demeanour.

When Molly pulled up to the gravel driveway in her rented sedan, the smell of frying crab met her nostrils. Yanking back the parking break, she smiled to herself and got out of the car. Opting to leave the luggage in the car for the moment, she crunched her way up the path, and pushed open the screen door.

The background noise of the television was audible from the living room. Smiling to herself, Molly made for the kitchen with the intention of inspecting the chef's work. Chunks of crab were frying in the pan with finely minced garlic, lemon and just a hint of...

"Rosemary? Hey, Willy...don't you think it might overwhelm the crab?"

A hand reached around from behind her, holding a cloth soaked in chloro-form. Molly tried to scream, but the ether had started to fog her brain. Despite her fading senses, she immediately identified the owner of the hand, and the petulant voice that purred in her ear, a mockery of amiability.

"Very astute, Molly. I find, however, in finely measured proportions, it sets off the lemon quite nicely."

Blackness took her.


	4. Chapter 4

Willy had given up the struggle for escape hours ago. There were chafe marks on his arms and wrists from jerking back and forth against his burlap rope bonds. The column to which he was tied wasn't well sanded- splinters had begun to fragment off and stabbed uncomfortably through his shirt. Still mostly debilitated from whatever injection he had been given during the drive over, Willy reflected on how easily he could be transported from the support column that held up the split level loft section, to the fine cedar chair that Hannibal Lecter had chosen to include in the top class dinner arrangement. A fine silk table cloth had been laid over the scrubbed wooden table, which in turn was topped by three settings of expensive silverware and black lacquered plates. The brass hanging lights had been turned low, adding to the orchestrated coziness of the dining room.

Willy looked dimly across the table at his mother, strapped to an identical chair. Her chin rested against her chest, but Willy could see her lips part as she drew in breath. His eyes drifted past the spray of roses in the silver vase over to the third empty place setting at the head of the table. The smell of exquisite cooking reached his nose and his stomach rumbled. Far too busy with school work and studying for the final oral exam, he had neglected to eat in the past two days. Bitterly, he doubted he would survive this evening, much less finish out the semester.

The click and whirr of the stereo met his ears, and the soft operatic notes of Mozart's Requiem began to hover in his mind. The swinging kitchen door flapped as the author of this cruel imitation of fine dining passed through it, balancing on his palms two exquisite silver platters complete with the traditional domed top. Flashing a smile at the inebriated Willy, Lecter set the platters down on the table.

"Last meal, doc?" Willy slurred, glancing back at the stereo.

"You recognized the music. Very good. But can you tell me what section?" Lecter smiled thinly and reached over to a free standing pewter champagne bucket, retrieving three glasses and a bottle of brut champagne. Willy couldn't tell the date or quality, but he expected it probably costed more than his car. Willy just stared.

"I'll tell you. It is the start of the Offertorium. Domine Jesu." Lecter paused, and tilted his head. Despite being a simple gesture, its strange animal connotations made Willy tense. It reminded him of the first time he ever went to the zoo in Miami, and the panther had come right up to the glass, injecting inquisitiveness into its stare by tilting its head.

_He's not a panther. He's just a man. A crazy homicidal maniac who is going to kill you. _

"I'm not going to kill you, William, nor am I going to kill your mother," Lecter confided, demonstrating his uncanny ability to read minds as he started to work the bottle opener on the champagne. Willy eyed it blearily. Lecter lifted it by the neck in order to show him the label. "Fine champagne works wonders for seafood, don't you agree?"

"An evening with Martha fucking Stewart, is it?" Willy muttered, his fawn eyes rolling to gaze up into cold blue. Lecter's smile broadened, sending a ripple of fear through him.

"I won't kill you," Lecter repeated, his eyes flickering over to Molly, who was just starting to stir. "As long as you mind your manners. I hate bad manners."

---

"It's Rodriguez," Clarice whispered to Graham as she pressed her hand against the receiver, and then uncovered it. "What's up, Ro?"

"A package was delivered here about an hour ago with your name on it, babe. Want to come get it, or would you like me to run it down?"

"We'll come get it. We have to stop by the library anyway, do some research."

"Sounds good. Things are starting to get heavy around here. The Bureau was asking a few questions, but I told them I had you on some divorce casefile type stuff."

"You don't know what it means to me."

"Yes, I do."

That gave her pause. "I'll see you in twenty minutes."

They said their goodbyes, and Clarice hung up.

"Well?" Graham asked, shifting around to look at her over the back of the couch.

"There's a package at Eagle addressed to me."

"What's your plan?"

"I think," Clarice said as she picked up her coat and purse, "That we should go take a look at the references at the Carnegie."

"You're thinking it's from Lecter. The package. Doesn't it bother you that he seems to be handing us so many clues?"

Clarice toyed with the strap of her purse.

"Yes. It bothers me. But I know what his ultimate goal is. It's not to be caught, or killed. He doesn't want those things. I don't think he wants to kill you, either."

"Then what does he want?" Graham asked, stepping forward, concern creasing his expression.

Clarice shrugged, and glanced up at him. She was far too used to being shorter than everyone around her to find him intimidating. She worked the doorknob, and waited for Graham to follow her out before locking the door.

"He's obsessed with me. He considers me his adversary. He wants me to hunt him."

"Did it occur to you that maybe he wants more than that?" Graham suggested as he trailed her down the hall. The overhead florescent light flickered on and off, making him dizzy.

"No," Clarice said firmly, and ended the subject right there. Graham sighed and followed her out the door into the sunlight.

--

"What did the FBI want, Mr. Rodriguez?"

"The usual. What is Starling doing, how's Starling sleeping, what is Starling wearing. Is Starling fucking a cannibalistic madman. They think that's how they're gonna catch him, see."

"I'm glad you know better, Ro," Clarice mumbled as she accepted the package from her large Cuban employer. Silence prevailed as she slit it open and removed a folded sheet of paper.

In that familiar affluent handwriting, the damning words were written-

"_A kiss may ruin a human life."_

Clarice gulped, and quickly set the letter down. Graham looked at her, one eyebrow arched.

"Does this mean anything to you?"

"No," she answered quickly. Almost too quickly. She grabbed the package and began to tear through it, looking for some other trace of its sender. A sprig of lavender fell onto the table. Frustrated, Clarice brushed it aside.

"Odd. I know the bastard's crazy," Rodriguez said, picking up the letter. "But I don't see why he's quoting Wilde."

"Oscar Wilde?" Graham pressed, looking from the letter to Clarice, who was blanching. "Relax, Clarice. You're letting him get to you."

"It's from 'A Woman of No Importance'," Rodriguez continued. Both former FBI agents gave him sideways looks. "I had a lot of time to read in prison, okay? I read a lot of his poetry and writings from inside prison, too."

Clarice lifted her head. "Oscar Wilde. Rodriguez...you don't happen to have a copy of that play, do you?"

"Sorry, doll. But, you said you were headed to the Carnegie, and I'll bet they do."

---

While Graham requested research materials at the front desk, Clarice opened the worn copy of 'A Woman of No Importance' and surveyed the first lines.

_FIRST ACT_

_SCENE_

_Lawn in front of the terrace at Hunstanton._

_SIR JOHN and LADY CAROLINE PONTEFRACT, MISS WORSLEY, on chairs  
under large yew tree._

_LADY CAROLINE. I believe this is the first English country house  
you have stayed at, Miss Worsley?_

_HESTER. Yes, Lady Caroline._

_LADY_ _CAROLINE. You have no country houses, I am told, in America?_

_HESTER. We have not many._

"Graham!" she called, and was immediately silenced by a nearby librarian with a hissed 'sh!'. She whispered "sorry," as loud as she dared. Graham sauntered over with his armful of books. She held the book under the green bank lamp.

"Look at this!"

"A country house in England..?"

"No, no. Look, what it says about country houses in America. That's what we should be looking for. A country house. A very rich one, far from suburbs or anything. Something rural, but affluent."

"That shortens the list down to about a thousand, Clarice."

"God. There is just nothing here."

"Maybe we're digging too deep into this whole thing."

"No! There's got to be something here, somewhere," Clarice pressed her forehead into her palms.

"Maybe," Graham said, sitting down slowly as he dropped the stack of books onto the table. "We should start at the beginning. What have we got so far?"

Clarice pulled out her trusty notebook, and tapped her pen against it.

"Elizabeth Bathory, locker 1279, and a country house. Will, you know more about Lecter's background than I do. When I was after him before, I didn't have time for background research."

"We never really got much from him," Graham began. "He'd killed 12 people...that we knew of."

---

1975

"_That you did, with malice aforethought, cause Mason Verger to become intoxicated and induced him to peel off his own face with shattered glass. That you did kill and eviscerate Benjamin Raspail and later serve his entrails to members of the Board of the Philharmonic Orchestra. That you did kill and consume the liver of Karl Preston. That you did kill and bury Nathan de Marco. That you did assault and savage FBI Agent William Graham with the intent of killing him. That you did, through hypnotic suggestion and other nefarious means, cause your patients to bequeath you large sums of money in their wills. That you caused mayhem with the result of trauma, chaos, and the loss of life. How does the defendant answer these charges?"_

_The form of Hannibal Lecter was elegantly slouched at the defendant's table, his compact wiry body clad in a black silk Armani suit, double breasted and carefully stitched with silver satin pinstripes. It seemed apparent to the recovering Will Graham that he had dressed for the occasion knowing it would be the last time he would ever be able to enjoy such fine clothes. Graham noticed a few members of the philharmonic orchestra board discussing their disbelief of the possibility of Dr. Lecter's guilt._

"_He was always such a refined man," one of them whispered reedily._

"_This all has to be some gross mistake," the other agreed. _

_But when it came time to discuss the entry of a plea, both expressed shock when Dr. Lecter's lawyer claimed his client was not interested in entering a plea. Therefore, it was established that the state could not seek the highest sentence of death._

"_Son of a bitch," Graham muttered to himself, gently running a finger over his bandaged left cheek. _

_As the trial progressed, the descriptions of each murder made, the photographs passed around, Graham realized that it was a keen and clever strategy. The nature of the evidence suggested that the perpetrator lacked his faculties. By emphasizing the murders, Lecter had managed a brilliant legal coup for himself, saving himself from death. Behind him, one of the board members had fainted._

_The muscles in his neck tightening in anger, Graham stiffly turned his head to look at the man who had put him in the ICU for weeks. Disinterested with the proceedings, Lecter glanced over his shoulder at Graham and smiled devilishly. When Lecter himself was called to the stand, his lawyer indicated that his client had taken to fifth and would not testify. Lecter caught the prosecutor's eye and snapped his teeth at him. His own counsellor shuddered visibly, but did not dare reprimand his client. When the jury came back with a verdict of 'guilty, but insane', it was no surprise._

"_Dr. Lecter, before I make known my sentence, do you have anything to say?" the judge asked severely, dislike clear in her stern black face. Lecter cocked his head to the side, and smiled up at her. _

"_Your earrings, they're Swarovski, aren't they? Quite lovely," he purred, his tongue travelling over the back of his teeth. _

"_The defendant will rise to hear sentence. I sentence you, Hannibal Lecter, to be confined in a state institution for the remainder of your natural life without the possibility of parole. Case dismissed."_

The gavel cracked, and it was done. Will Graham went back to work. Then to a mental institution when the night terrors became too much. Then he went home, until the nightmare called back to him in the seductive voice of Master Crawford. And now here he was again, in pursuit of possibly the most dangerous and brilliant criminal ever to walk the face of the earth.

"Back in the day we established a pattern. Lecter, because he was a well known psychologist, had criminals referred to him often for counselling. Usually rich guys, people who could buy their way out of prosecution with good lawyers or corrupt judges. Through his specialized techniques, he could convince them to leave large portions of their estates to him in their wills."

"Like hypnosis?"

"Drugs, brainwashing, you name it. Sometimes he simply befriended the family, charmed them out of their socks, and had the money legitimately in place to fall into his hands should the inheritor die. It's not that uncommon, people leaving their money to their family doctor. In trust so that it could go back into the system, or be fed into charities. Some people don't want to have their wills drained by posthumous legal fees."

"No one found this suspicious?"

"Well, as you know, Lecter destroyed most of his patient files. After it became apparent that Lecter was going to serve time for life, his lawyer gave details to the press. He was disbarred."

"Who was his lawyer?"

"Jeremy Tate. But don't bother looking, he's dead. Drunk driving accident. They reassigned some other public defender to Lecter, but only on paper. I don't think they ever spoke."

"So we can rule out the lawyer."

"We can rule out any of the other victims, too. The IRS seized the assets Lecter brainwashed any of them into bequeathing to him."

"Great. So we've got nothing."

Clarice tossed the book down onto the table. "We're still back to Oscar Wilde, Elizabeth Bathory and locker 1279."

"And a country house," Graham added uselessly.

"And a goddamn country house."


	5. Chapter 5

At first, Molly had screamed in shock. She recovered her faculties faster than her son had, and fixed her livid gaze on the middle aged man smiling amiably at her from the head of the table, his white shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms.

"Hello again, Molly."

"Let me the fuck go right now, or so help me god I will-"

"I appreciate your dedication," Lecter interrupted, raising a hand. "But I object to your using such language at the dinner table."

"Shut the fuck up," Molly snapped, twisting against the thick ropes corded around her.

"Mom," Willy said softly. "Don't."

She fell silent, and then looked at her son, tears welling in her eyes.

"Are you okay, baby?" her gaze turned to Lecter, her voice a warning growl. "If you hurt him..."

"If I were to hurt him, Molly, trust that I would make sure you were my audience," Lecter promised.

He lingered behind her chair, planting his hands around the smooth wooden armrests as he leaned down and breathed against her ear: "I understand your distress, but I must tell you, if you continue to make such an appalling nuisance of yourself, I will be forced to take punitive measures. Do you understand?"

The look of defeat in Willy's eyes finally settled the issue for her. She cringed away from Lecter.

"Okay. Okay. Please...just..."

Lecter smiled and withdrew.

"Excellent. Now that we're all present, allow me to explain a few ground rules," he announced, returning to the head of the table. "The doors are sealed, each one armed with a liberal amount of Semtex, a commercial plastic explosive. I hold the central disarming control. I don't need to tell you what will occur if either of you attempts an escape. As I told your son before, Molly, and I now tell you, I have no intention of killing either of you. All I ask is that you behave yourselves, which will ensure that both of you will come out of this alive and intact. Is that all clear?"

The two captives stared dully at him. He clapped his hands together. "Good."

"You're doing this to lure my husband, isn't that right?" Molly finally asked, her voice monotone.

"Quite," Lecter quipped as began to pour champagne into the glasses. "But as they say, 'it's not what you're thinking'."

"I don't believe you." Willy said in his soft, calm voice.

"I know," the doctor said, smiling gently. "But never mind that now. I've prepared dinner, and I'd be absolutely devastated if you didn't try it."

With that, he lifted the lids off the silver platters to reveal several red crab shells, each stuffed with seared tender crab meat. A parsley lemon butter cream sauce garnished the main course, which steamed enticingly. The second platter held a pile of steamed long stemmed broccoli and salmon on a cedar plank, also garnished with lemon wedges and capers.

"I considered an appetizer, but I suspect both of you are rather peckish. I'm going to untie your hands, and I'll ask you not to attempt any theatrics with the silverware."

Wordlessly, they nodded. As Lecter moved to undo the ropes that bound Willy's hand, Molly gave him a disbelieving look.

"You know you're crazy if you think we're going to eat that, right?" she said dryly.

"I confess I had hoped otherwise," Lecter replied, flicking out the serrated Harpy to slice through Willy's bonds. Willy stared for a moment at the steaming platters, his mouth watering. Molly held out her hands, her eyes following Lecter closely. Willy watched, and bit his lip, trying not to hyperventilate.

_Don't panic. Don't panic, he doesn't want you to panic, and you don't want to panic. Ask him something. Negotiate. _

"I'll make a deal with you, doc," he said as he drew in a shaky breath, rubbing the chafe marks on his wrists. "I'll eat that if you promise me that I'll be back at school for my final exam and my mother will be home by this time next week."

Molly frowned at her son, who shrugged. Lecter cocked an eyebrow, and then slowly, a genuine smile appeared on his face.

"I'll tell you what, William. I'll do more than that. If you are willing to make this as pleasant an experience as possible, I'll not only cut both your bonds and give you free reign of the house, I'll make sure that you ace that final exam."

"You're both insane," Molly muttered from across the table. Lecter offered Willy his hand. Willy forced himself not to blanch, shook it firmly. There was a moment of silence.

"That looks excellent, doc," Willy finally said , indicating the steaming platters.

"Thank you, William," Lecter reciprocated as he began to dish out portions. Molly didn't say anything, but seized her champagne flute and downed half of it. She quailed slightly as Lecter cast her a disapproving look.

"Molly, I'd ask you kindly to give that brand the respect it deserves by not guzzling it," he said softly as he set a plate down in front of her.

"Do you normally prepare gourmet meals for your hostages?" she asked, this time taking a smaller sip.

"To be quite honest with you, I have little experience with this sort of thing."

"Really," Willy commented as he cut into the fish. "Excuse me for saying so, but you seem like an expert."

"I try," Lecter murmured, feigning modesty as he refilled Molly's glass. "I applaud your choice in scents, Molly, the rose water compliments you very well, even if you do only wear it to church."

Molly opened her mouth to question his knowledge of this information, but then realized it would be useless.

"And I'm glad to see you've recovered well from your surgery...how has your back been holding up?"

"Much better, thank you," she said stiffly, and took another measured sip of her champagne. Eyeing the plate critically, she considered for a moment and then picked up the dainty silver fork and speared a small hunk of crab meat, carefully lifting it to her mouth. She chewed it thoughtfully.

"You were right about the rosemary," she finally said, still looking down at her plate. Lecter buffed his fingernails against the white collar of his shirt, waiting patiently for Molly to look him in the eye. When she finally raised her angry gaze to meet his, he licked the backs of his small white teeth.

"I'll be sure to send you home with the recipe."

---

"_I wonder why the government agencies policing this world are so very secretive." Lecter's voice purred in her ear. No, not Lecter. Before, she could distance herself from him with 'Lecter' or 'Dr. Lecter' or even just 'him'. Now, with his hands pinning hers against the cold white enamel of the old fashioned refrigerator,_ _his body pressed against hers with uncomfortable intimacy, her breath was short. _

"_Hannibal," she breathed, trying to quell the anxiety in her heart. His face was inches from hers. She could smell the sweet tang of sauvignon blanc on his breath. _

"_Do know you the first thing I thought when I saw you?"_

"_Cheap shoes...?" she ventured, the nervous quiver present in her voice. Oh, how she wanted to escape. Was it fear that wracked her body, or...something else? She didn't want to think about it._

"_I thought, 'she's afraid of me...but more afraid of failure.'" The edge of his lower lip travelled against her cheek. Her body jerked, but Hannibal reaffirmed his grasp on her waist, slamming her against the refrigerator. _

"_Tell me, Clarice," he continued calmly."What did you do after you left? Don't lie."_

_Clarice turned her face away from his, unable to look him in the eyes._

"_I cried outside my car."_

"_Why? Did I frighten you?" There wasn't a single note of concern in his voice, merely inquiry. His breath, hot and sweet with alcohol, traversed across her throat, making her dizzy. She shuddered._

"_No. You looked through me. I felt exposed. Unsophisticated, simple...that everything in my life up until that point didn't...mean anything."_

"_What then, is my significance in your life? Think carefully, Clarice."_

_Right answer, wrong answer. The latter might result in her death. Those quick jaws, full of sharp teeth were right there before her throat. But she knew the answer. As long as she knew the answer, she would always be safe. As safe as it was possible to be here at Dr. Lecter's mercy._

"_I wasn't who I was meant to be until I met you."_

"_The first time, making love through the glass with eye contact. You remember. The FBI sent you to me, whored you out just like they have whored you every day since you entered into their service. A wise non-event, they'd title it. This never happened. You feel used, don't you."_

"_Yes."_

"_But not by me."_

" _No."_

"_One wise non-event, breach of trust with foul intent. Tell me how it feels."_

"_Hurt. Alone. Empty."_

"_Tell me what you want."_

"_To save the innocent."_

"_And? Think harder."_

"_To punish the sinners."_

_Hannibal tilted her chin, lips millimetres from hers as he spoke softly._

"_You see, we're very much alike. Naturally I lack that rather thoughtful former, but such as it is..."_

_Her body sagged into his arms as his mouth met hers, demanding and all-consuming. Without thought, she felt herself respond, retaliate, letting her tongue flicker into his mouth to taste the white wine he had sipped as he had prepared that macabre dining arrangement. When it ended, he smiled at her, patronizing as always._

"_Now, that wasn't so hard, was it, Clarice?"_

"_But," she protested, a frown forming on her face. "I didn't kiss you. Before, I didn't kiss you back."_

"_Well, this is a dream, Clarice. It's your subconscious. We can be like the FBI, and say it never happened. One wise non-event."_

Clarice woke with her face in her pillow, sweat trickling between her shoulder blades. The blankets were wrapped tightly around her body, and she struggled to free herself from them. She fought to clear the dream from her mind, but like many dreams, its reality still clung to her nerves. It was a few minutes before the scent of sauvignon blanc and blood had completely left her nostrils.

Her heart beginning to slow, Clarice glanced at the bedside clock. The red digital readout showed 5:26 am. No way was she going to get back to sleep. Reaching for her robe, she pulled it on and sauntered out to the kitchen.

She was unused to creeping down the hallof her own apartmentbut Graham's faint snores could be heard from the kitchen. Turning on the drip on the coffee machine, Clarice retrieved the case file from the living room couch, and returned with it to the kitchen table. Turning on the low stove light, she sat down and began to flip through it.

Photographs of mutilated bodies popped out at her. Detailed crime reports listed the bizarre conditions in which the victims had been found, accompanied by newspaper clippings and photographs of the ever elegant murderer in question. Finally, she came to the back of her file; her own notes from the Gumb case. Old reminders of those heady days when she was first learning the art of deciphering Dr. Lecter's word games. Sighing, she doodled aimlessly on her legal pad as she looked down at the abundance of material, cursing its uselessness.

Idly, she traced out the words from her dream. The odd jumble of words the subconscious Hannibal had strung together to form that stinging rhyme.

"One wise non-event."

She stared at the words for a moment, and then glanced back at the scribbles on the yellowed ten year old piece of note paper.

_Iron Sulfide. One Wise Non-Event._

"Elizabeth Bathory, a country house...and locker 1279."

Suddenly, a jolt of realization hit her.

Quickly, she began to rearrange the letters of the phrase from the dream. Scratching out possibilities, rewriting new ones, until finally she was left with only plausible possibility.

_One Two Seven Nine_.

"Letters and numbers," she mumbled to herself, frustration making her body tense. Fighting the desire to throw the pen, paper, and file across the room, she slammed a hand down on the table. Then...it clicked.

"One, two, seven, nine...one nine seven two...1972. Oh my God."

Quivering with excitement, she rooted through the file folder, until finally she came to a newspaper clipping dated 1972. There wasn't much of an article, but the faded black and white photograph depicted a group of men and women in affluent formal wear. One of them, naturally, was Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Squinting, Clarice brought the paper to her nose in order to read the caption.

"_Baltimore Philharmonic Board members - From left to right...Mrs. Adrienne Chagny, Mr. Maurice Yates, Dr. Henry Carnegie, Ms. Christina Flagella, Mr. Frances Bath, Dr. Hannibal Lecter._"

"Oh my god." Clarice repeated again. She jumped to her feet and raced over to the guestroom door. A rapid knock on the door brought a disgruntled "Wha...?" from Graham.

"Will, I found it. I figured it out. Get up, we've got to get to the office to call Baltimore."

Graham opened the door, puffy eyed and dazed looking in his Red Sox nightshirt.

"Find something?"

"Look," Clarice stuffed the clipping under his nose. "1972. Remember, locker 1279? 1972. Elizabeth Bathory. Frances Bath. I'll bet my rent that Frances Bath owned a country house, Will."

"Well, I'll be," Graham said, and stifled a yawn. "Time to get dressed."


	6. Chapter 6

Officer LaConner was a tall, but still possessed the lean muscle of youth. A typical New York kid with black hair and brown eyes, his jaw worked a wad of peppermint gum in one corner of his mouth, while he spoke out the other. When Starling and Graham had entered the dark underground room, they had found LaConner in the centre of a pit full of computers. Through the chain link that separated them from the main computer terminals, they could see the youth playing solitaire on one of the many glowing computer screens that surrounded his old fashioned rolling chair.

Particularly infamous in law enforcement circles, Clarice Starling was in no hurry to begin the usual discussion that police officers (especially male police officers) about Dr. Lecter and Mason Verger. She toyed with the duct tape strip stuck to the counter, with 'Records Center' hastily scrawled across it in black letters.

"'Morning, Officer," Graham called over the desk. LaConner turned around in his chair, and rolled over in their direction.

"Hey, there. Investigator Graham, right?"

"Will Graham, that's right. We spoke about an hour ago."

"Yeah, you wanted those Baltimore records," LaConner stood up, and unlocked the chain link door, and beckoned them in. "I'm going to need you to sign in and check weapons at the desk there."

As they went to sign in and check in their handguns and ammunition, Clarice could feel the eyes of the boy travel over her- either checking her out, or trying to confirm her identity. Probably both. He refused to desist upon meeting her glare. Silently, she wished for just a little of Dr. Lecter's uncanny ability to intimidate, but immediately quashed that thought as the nervy rookie waved them down to the computer pit. He returned to his rolling chair, sliding in front of one of the computer kiosks.

"We've got a system here - newly implemented. You can reference the files by name, date, listing, physical description, whatever. It hasn't been completed yet, and a lot of databases have been slow about updating."

"We need the MP file from Baltimore. 1972," Clarice said, turning on her best FBI 'talking down to rookies' voice.

"Sure, Investigator Starling."

LaConner typed in the criteria. After a few seconds, a 404 error page appeared.

"404 error? Help me out here, kid, I never got a handle on these things."

"It probably means the Baltimore database hasn't been fully uploaded yet."

"Can you ring them up for the information?" Graham asked, making a bemused expression at the screen.

"I can call and ask them to fax it over. Can you maybe give me anything more specific? Cuts down on the paper."

"Tell them to send all the missing persons who have not been recovered," Clarice ordered.

"Okay."

LaConner wheeled over to the fax machine, and lifted up the phone section. He pressed the speakerphone.

"Central Dispatch"

"Yeah, it's LaConner in records. Can you transfer me to Baltimore records?"

"Sure thing, Officer."

A beat, and the buzz of dead air. And then crackling, and a bored middle aged voice suddenly became audible.

"Records."

"Hey, It's LaConner from New York."

"What can I do for you, Officer?"

"We've got a couple of P-Is here looking for the missing person file from 1972. Can you fax over all the unsolveds?"

"Sure thing. Got a fax number for me?"

"Yes, sir. Two-one-two-one-six--oh-twelve hundred."

"Thanks."

A shuffling sound, and then-

"It's only about a page worth. They did good that year."

An electronic buzz as the paper was loaded into the machine several states over. After a moment, the fax machine in the New York office began to beep, and started to print out the list. Clarice felt her heart rate begin to increase as it slowly began to emerge from the printing slot. The moment the first page finally emerged, Graham seized it, taking care not to smudge the wet ink. There was only one page, the listing from A to Z, with last names first.

"Aarons, Abergavenny, Angelo, Bath, Brendon.."

"Wait. Let me see that," Clarice interrupted, an alarm bell going off in her mind. Graham handed over the list. "Gabriel M. Bath."

"Save us a trip to Baltimore if he's got any priors."

"Officer LaConner? Would you please run down Mr. Gabriel M. Bath? B-A-T-H."

"Sure thing."

He wheeled back over to the computer and began to enter the criteria into the database. There was exactly one hit. Graham bent over the screen and read.

"Looks like he's got priors, but he spent most of his life in an institution, so they were all inside. The hospital dealt with them. Gabriel Bath was later released to the custody of his brother Frances, a munitions tycoon in Baltimore. Gabriel Bath disappeared shortly after his brother died of some kind of cancer that was never identified. His estate was released to a...Dr. Hannibal Lecter."

"Hannibal Lecter?" LaConner's eyebrows shot up.

"LaConner, we need a copy of that will, right now. Do you understand me?"

"I gotta call the Census Bureau, it'll take a minute," LaConner said meekly, bowing his head as he made another roll back to the fax-machine.

A phone call and ten minutes later, the machine started pumping out a ten page document of the inventory of the Last Will and Testament of Gabriel Bath. Graham and Clarice immediately began to file through the list, searching for the list of physical properties. Clarice lifted out an affidavit confirming Hannibal Lecter as the recipient of the entire Bath estate, signed in a scrawled hand. After that, the property list finally emerged.

"There are only two main properties...the rest are apartment buildings or properties that the Baths leased to tenants and companies. There's a mansion in Baltimore, and then a colonial house here in New York State, right on Lake Erie. It's got a name, instead of an address. Murdock."

"Betcha my bottom dollar."

"Let's go."

The drive was quiet- the calm before the storm. The rented car was in fine condition, and it floated along the highway like a dream. It was still early, and the influx of traffic to the city was all going the other way. Clarice pretended to doze, but really, she was replaying the vision from her last encounter with Hannibal Lecter. It had been morbidly intimate, surreal and unsettling. She had no desire to repeat such an event. Graham was unaware of her conflicting feelings. He knew that her acquaintance with Dr. Lecter was more than just passing, but didn't know the depth of their connection. He himself was envisioning the scene of arrest. Initially it had begun with two quick shots to the head, until his civilized self whittled it down to a tazer to the side, and a quick snap of handcuffs.

_Too easy._ _This is too easy. We figured it out too fast. _

This was going to end up ugly no matter what, that much was certain. Lecter, he believed, had no intention of being taken in alive. The very idea offended him. So Graham was entitled to a belief that this might end with the vanquishment of his greatest and deadliest enemy.

_You're kidding yourself. You got lucky the first time, but he's wise to you, now. _

Graham watched the mist as it roiled over the windshield, and then looked down at the sleeping Clarice. How had she survived so many encounters with the madman? Lecter had not given any serial killers Starling's home address, nor had he any of the rage or contempt that he had clearly expressed for Graham. What was it about her? Her deadly reputation as an FBI Agent sharpshooter? No, Lecter had been civil in their exchanges from the very start, which had begun when she was a student. He expressed contempt for her station, had been insulted by her presence, but something about her boldness impressed him. She had intrigued him, in some way. Was it her incorruptibility? Her bravery? Or he was it simply that she was the first woman he had seen after eight years, and he wanted her.

No. That wasn't the root of Lecter's craving. Graham had a gift for seeing into the corrupted minds of criminality. His instinct told him that Dr. Lecter had a far more sophisticated desire to have Clarice Starling in proximity. Her outstanding qualities were obvious. She was a straight arrow, dedicated to her values and her beliefs, so much that she quit the FBI when she discovered that their idea of right and wrong had far more to do with dollar signs than hers.

_Is it because she's so damn good?_

Was it his admiration of her purity? But why? Lecter didn't aspire to goodness. He disdained federal authorities and law enforcement. He would kill someone for the smallest slight on his sense of propriety, and he enjoyed causing pain. Graham ran the pathology through his head. Sometimes Lecter's victims really were examples of human depravity. When he considered it, everyone who had died under Clarice Starling's gun had been a criminal to some extent. Murderers, gun toting drug dealers, hired assassins. Unlike Lecter, she was a protectorate of the innocent. Was it that he admired about her? Or her absolute ability to see past any moral qualms and deliver justice unto the wicked?

What had occurred at Paul Krendler's lakeside house during the macabre dinner? Did Starling eat the proverbial pomegranate, and surrender half of her psyche to Hannibal Lecter? How vulnerable was she to his articulate tongue, the instrument which he used to cause a man to commit suicide one cell over during his incarceration.

Graham decided there were too many questions. Too many questions and it would unfair to ask them. As he passed over a river, he turned his thoughts to Molly and Willy, and prayed for their safety, prayed for his own, knowing that this ordeal would soon be over one way or another. And then he could go home.


	7. Chapter 7

"List the four categories of anxieties that may be present in children."

Willy observed not for the first time that morning, how utterly bizarre this situation was. Molly was barricaded in the living room, watching television (or maybe plotting an escape). Willy himself was lying on Professor Walsh's old couch in the study. Adjacent to him was Dr. Hannibal Lecter, who at the present time was leaning against the oak desk, toying with a leather-bound copy of Grey's Anatomy.

"Generalized Anxiety, Separation Anxiety, Panic Disorder, and Phobias."

"What are generally the first signs of OCD?"

"An illogical impulse that is repeated, often times associated with some kind of phobia."

"Give an example, William," Lecter said lazily, thumbing the pages and watching them zip against the cover.

"A child might have an illogical fear of someone breaking into their home. They would check all of the doors and windows to make sure they're locked. That's the phobia. When they're afraid that they accidentally unlocked one of the doors or windows during the first course, and go back to check them again, that's an obsessive-compulsive manifestation."

"Very good. Now, what are some of the more obscure ways to identify a learning disorder?"

"Difficulty distinguishing left from right, extreme dyslexia, difficulty walking in a straight line or generally keeping focused on even the smallest task."

"Why is it important to assess this problem accurately?"

"Because children may develop academic problems or phobias because of emotional stress or trauma. Their education might be interrupted for a period of time, and they never quite work up to the levels of their peers."

"And?"

"And..." Willy hummed the word at the ceiling. "That doesn't necessarily indicate a learning disability, and it can severely damage the child's educational process if they're misdiagonosed."

"Tell me, William," Lecter drawled as he set the book down on the table. "Where are you looking to start your internship?"

"I was thinking about doing a few years at the UW Medical Center, and then maybe Harborview," Willy paused, and then pushed himself up from his reclining position to look at Lecter, one eyebrow skeptically lifted. "Why?"

Lecter cocked his head to the side, a benevolent grin spreading on his face. "Would you perhaps like a recommendation?"

"What?" Willy asked incredulously.

"I am still licensed to practice medicine, a recommendation from me is perfectly legitimate," Lecter said, tilting his head with a catlike smile.

"I don't think they'd believe me," Willy said doubtfully.

"Get my handwriting tested. I'll leave fingerprints. It'll be entirely bonafide. And highly amusing, if nothing else."

Willy turned around and directed his confused expression at the ceiling.

"I still don't know, doc."

"Think of it this way. You'll get considerations simply for managing to survive my company."

Willy said nothing for a moment. Again he noted the absolute insanity of his present circumstances.

"Good point," he said, voice slightly higher than usual.

---

Gun parts were scattered all over the dashboard. Graham was cleaning his old 37. S&W revolver with a paper napkin he had found in the glove compartment. Clarice glanced at him for a moment, and then returned her eyes to the road. They had changed at a rest stop an hour back. Clarice didn't know the road any better than Graham, but it seemed like a good idea if they wanted to conserve their focus for the upcoming ordeal.

"You still use that old fossil?" she commented, indicating the skeleton of the gun, removed of its cartridge cylinder.

"Old reliable. What's that anti-aircraft piece you're packing, anyway?"

Clarice unclipped her holster, pulled out the matte-black special issue baretta handgun and handed it to Graham. He hefted the loaded gun, and then arched an eyebrow at Clarice.

"Hey, normally I go smaller," she said defensively. She had a bad reputation for being too skilled with handguns, and many of the slights made years ago by the press still stung, even now.

"Well, it's not like a dinky little Derringer is going to get the job done."

"I've got one those, too."T

To be frank, Clarice wasn't sure if any gun would get the job done. Though she had never actually witnessed it herself, she had heard about his inhuman speed. His calm and strategically planned escape from the Memphis PD had made her realize long ago how physically dangerous he was. She knew for a fact he had no difficulty overwhelming an individual with a firearm. Not to mention his ability to prevent pain from dictating his actions. He had grimaced slightly when he brought the cleaver down on his own wrist, but that was all.

So when, Graham offered her gun back, and she took it gingerly, knowing that if it came to down to shooting, they wouldn't be shooting to injure or inebriate. They'd shoot to kill.

An hour later, they had traded spots again. Clarice now had taken up the chore of cleaning her firearm, but wasn't at it long before Graham pulled to a stop on the side of the road and yanked the parking break.

"What's up?" Clarice asked, sitting up.

"It's just up there, but let's not pull right up. No need to give him any warning," Graham said, lowering his voice, as if Lecter could hear them. Clarice popped the clip back into the baretta and holstered it while Graham retrieved the battle fatigues from the back seat. Pulling them on, they both got out of the car and began to crunch down the gravel shoulder towards the gated driveway.

---

Molly Graham had double checked to make sure the television volume was loud enough to prevent any one outside the room from hearing her clandestine activities. Holding the strip of bedding, she carefully tied it around the matte black handle of a steak knife she had managed to filch from the kitchen while Lecter and Willy talked in the study.

She had tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted that the only way to survive this would be civility. Willy didn't know what Lecter was capable of- he didn't hear the horror story of Lecter's two attempts of the life of her husband. When Willy saw the scars, he equated them with Francis Dolarhyde, not Lecter, who in truth was responsible for them.

After the assault in their home, Molly and Graham had talked about divorce. But alas, she could not leave this sad, brave and flawed man. She knew her decision was the right one when one evening, Will had spent the night talking with his step son about the nightmares little Willy had been suffering. Dolarhyde would invade her son's thoughts at night, giving him terrors and making him afraid to go to sleep. Graham had promised no one would ever hurt them again.

Molly fumed as she fumbled with the knot. Here they were, in the custody of a psychopathic killer, yet again. Stuffing the homemade flail under one of the couch cushions, she turned towards the television, one hand around the rope, and waited patiently for Willy to reappear.

She was not disappointed. After ten minutes time, her pale face son sauntered into the room, his eyes red with sleeplessness. Despite his projected calm and sterile medical attitude towards the situation, staring eye to eye with Lecter had taken a toll on him. She hoped that after this, he would still be able to function in his chosen profession, that Lecter had not destroyed or perverted his love of psychology.

"Where is he?" Molly asked him in a soft undertone.

"The kitchen, I think. Why?"

"I want to try talking to him."

"You shouldn't, mom. He won't talk to you. He'll just...prod at your wounds."

"Why does he talk to you, Willy?"

Willy ran his hands through his hair.

"Common ground? General interest? I don't know."

"I want to talk to him about Will."

"He knows that," Willy murmured, closing his eyes and tilting his head back against the couch.

"What does he want, really?" Molly asked, hoping the noise off the television and her voice was covering the sound of scraping fabric as she pulled out the makeshift flail and tucked the knife into her back pocket.

"I have no idea. If you really want to ask him, you may as well. I guess he's making dinner."

"The cannibalistic psychopath is making us dinner."

"Yup."

Molly wound the frayed sheet around her forearm as she crept into the kitchen. The sound of sizzling could be heard, and the smell of lemon and shrimp carried to her nostrils. Lecter stood before the sink, carefully peeling a navel orange with a carrot shredder and assembling the artfully curled strips of rind on a paper towel. Letting out one coil of her weapon, Molly breathed in as silently as she dared and raised her arm to swing the knife in her captor's direction. The knife hissed through the air. Lecter turned with lightning speed and used the half peeled orange to catch the blade of the knife. Molly let out a small cry as he grinned viciously, grasping the end of the fabric strip and yanked her forward. She could smell the lemon on his breath from when he had sampled his own cooking. She felt a stinging in her arm, like that of a bee sting, and looked down at her arm. A hypodermic needle was quivering in the fleshy part of her forearm. Her vision began to blur, and she could faintly hear Lecter's chiding undertone.

"Tsk tsk. What did I tell you about the silverware, Molly."

Lecter caught her as she sagged, and set her gently down next to the spice cupboard. Gently he withdrew the needle and tossed it into the garbage. He returned to the stove top and turned down the heat. Shaking his head regretfully, he prepared a linen napkin with more of his favourite high concentrate chloro-form.

Pity it had to come to this. But, he supposed, now was as good a time as any. Assuming his plans had progressed sufficiently. Pulling a fold through his index and ring finger, he secured the chemical soaked napkin and calmly walked through the swinging kitchen door, through the dining room and into the living room.

"Case the place or go right in?" Graham said in an undertone. They were fifty yards from the house, but he couldn't help but feel the need to whisper.

Clarice bit her lip. "Come in from the water...I bet there's a basement door on the west side. See where the trees lead up to the water?"

"Okay. Ten seconds, okay? We both go across the grass at the same time."

Bent low, they crunched across the underbrush as they made their way down the shallow slope. The mist rode low over the grass, making it glisten with dew. Potentially slippery.

Silently, Clarice gestured this information with military code to Graham. Graham gave her a thumbs up. After a beat, they both shuffled past the woodshed, over the weedy wet lawn and onto the concrete patio that sat under the wooden balcony, cluttered with rusting garden equipment.

A wood thrush whistled through the trees, and was distantly answered. The noise echoed across the still waves of Lake Erie as Clarice fumbled with the lock-smith's key, slipping it into the small doorhandle lock. She needn't have bothered- the door was unlocked.

Knowing this could mean nothing good. Graham nudged the door open with the barrel of his six shooter. Automatic lights came up, florescently illuminating the gummy threadbare carpet and the cement walls upon which old posters had been tacked up. Exercise equipment had been placed around the organized looking room, but cobwebs hung from the handlebars and pulleys, adding to the musty atmosphere.

Creaky looking wooden steps lead up to what appeared to be the kitchen. The door at the top was left ajar, another unsettling sign. Graham waved Clarice into the room after him, and then went over to test the stairs. A faint but not loud creak emitted from the first one, and he carefully proceeded to the second. Clarice followed after him, careful to move light footedly as they ascended into the dimly lit kitchen.

The linoleum floor was peeling at the corners, and made a slight sound as their feet compressed it. The kitchen was organized and large, but disuse was evident in the thin layer of dust that seemed to coat everything. Clarice held up a hand for silence.

Tinny jazz music was playing in the room next door. Using her thick winter coat to muffle the sound, Clarice cocked her handgun and proceeded very slowly across the threshold into the living room. Graham followed behind her, his eyes watching everything over the sight on his revolver barrel.

Long satin sheets had been hung up over the various articles that seemed like they had been piled here for storage. Wax candles had dripped down over the mantel piece, and a large old fashioned gramophone with its comical lampshade like speaker was playing the gravelly tones of Louis Armstrong. The buzz of the record added even more character to the music, and Clarice felt her shoulders relax. What she had taken for boxes under the sheets were in fact, old musical instruments. Band pieces like long trombones and tubas. The candles had burned down to stubs, there was nothing left to support the wicks, some of which had ridden the wax waterfalls down the side of the mantel. Graham looked around once before reaching to touch one of the melted candles.

"No dust," he said softly.

"No one's here, Will," Clarice sighed. She holstered her gun and proceeded to the other side of the room across the swept hardwood floor. Uncovered in the corner was a desk made of handsome cherry wood. Atop it was a letter sealed with a featureless red wax seal. Uncaring of procedure, Clarice tore the thick white paper open and withdrew a fine sheet. Graham leaned over her shoulder as she read-

_My dearest Clarice,_

_I had hoped you would find this sooner rather than later. I'm sorry not to be present, but I had business to attend to. Undoubtedly you're curious as to what happened to the late Mr. Bath. His remains are somewhere under the foundations of one of my old former residences: it's now a condominium. Oblige my vanity by adding him to my score card, will you?_

_In the icebox you will find hors d'oeuvres. I expect you're both famished after your long drive, I know I would be. I hope I'll be seeing you both quite soon. _

_Ta for now,_

_Hannibal Lecter_

_ps. Pay close attention to the ingredients, Will, I commissioned them especially for you._

"The icebox?"

"The fridge, come on."

They tracked back through the dust into the kitchen, where Graham threw open the refrigerator door. Neatly situated on a platter were the hors d'oeuvres, salty little crackers with cream cheese, salmon and capers piled on top of each one. On the shelf below it, the package of smoked salmon lay sealed inside a Ziplock bag. Graham bent down and grasped the package, reading its gold cardboard cover before promptly dropping it in horror.

"What is it? Will?" Clarice asked urgently, bending down to pick up the package.

"It's from Anacortes, Clarice, in Washington State."

In an instant, they were out of the house and in the car, tearing down the highway. While Clarice drove at breakneck speed, Graham dialled up Willy's cell phone number, dread threatening to consume his heart. One ring. Two. Three. A click-

"Hello, Will."

"Lecter, if you've hurt them, I'll blow your goddamn brains out."

Beside him, Graham could feel Clarice stiffen. The car swerved dangerously as she dodged past an SUV, but remained focused on her driving.

"I imagine you'd like to do that anyway, Will. Tell me, how are you sleeping?"

"Lecter..."

"Tsk. Your wife and step son are quite fine. Somewhat inebriated, true, but we've had quite a fine time."

"Where are you?" Graham demanded, one hand fingering the handle of his revolver.

"There's a flight headed for Seattle this evening from the Erie International Airport. I recommend that you take it, Will."

"What's he saying, Graham?" Clarice said, her voice a stage whisper. Graham held up a hand to indicate silence.

"Alright, I'll be on it."

"I don't need to tell you what you already know, do I?"

"No police."

"That's right. And one more thing."

"What?"

"If Clarice Starling is not with you when you arrive, I will be serving you Molly's eyeballs in gelato."

Graham was quiet for a moment. He glanced over at Starling, his face white, but eyes livid.

"Okay."

"Excellent. See you soon."

The receiver clicked and Graham closed his cell phone, setting it very gingerly on the dash.

"Make an exit for Pennsylvania as soon as you can. We're flying out tonight."

"Alright."


	8. Chapter 8

It took an enormous amount of willpower to keep Graham from ordering one, two, three vodka shots from the flight attendant. He dry washed his hands, while Starling kept flipping through an airline magazine without actually reading the words. The nerves of both were frazzled. Fortunately the first class compartment was deserted, and it turned out to be even more fortunate really that those were the only seats available. There had been some hassle at the counter about the guns, but Clarice managed finally to quell the security people's fears by telling them that she and Graham were ex-FBI retainer agents, fully licensed to carry firearms in any part of the country, and that this was the matter of top secret internal affairs. Clarice tossed a few other important sounding phrases, flashed the badges and they managed to catch the plane five minutes before takeoff.

"They're probably already dead," Graham said in an undertone, his eyes wide and distressed. He continued to dry wash his hands.

"I don't think so. That isn't what he's after," Clarice said softly, taking Graham's hand and patting it gently.

"How do you know? Look at my face, Clarice. He did that!"

"Because," Clarice said, her hand shaking over his, but her voice rock-steady. "He wants to needle me more than he wants to kill you. Or your family."

"How can you possibly know that?" Graham asked weakly, falling back against the cushiony leather.

"Instinct," she replied. "Besides, do you think if I had it all wrong about him, I'd still be alive?"

"He tried to kill me."

"You put him in custody, of course he tried to kill you. It's all about quid pro quo with him."

"This for that. I'll give him fucking this for that," Graham growled, turning towards the window. He didn't speak another word until they had landed at SeaTac airport.

Molly's eyes rolled as she opened them. She felt disoriented and nauseous, and the ropes binding her to the chair were cutting off some of the circulation. A gel compress had been strapped to the back of her neck. She could not see Willy anywhere, but could hear rustling behind her and suspected that her son had arrived to a similar situation. Twisting her head as far as she could manage, Molly caught sight of the wires strapped to the floor with electrical tape that lead up to a small device with a metal antenna on it. Several LED lights embedded in its matte black face flickered on and off, but she couldn't make out the labels beneath them.

A cold wet towelette pressed against her forearm, and before she could even gather the presence of mind to look up, a needle slipped into her flesh and slowly injected its contents into her veins. Blue eyes, pupils illuminated by red pinpricks of light held her vision as it slowly returned to black.

Somewhere in the darkness, Molly could hear the smooth wood-like notes of Bach's Cello Suite no. 1. With the LED lights flashing just behind her closed eyelids, the music sang her back to sleep.

A few well chosen words had a far greater effect on the Enterprise car rental place than the Erie Airport officials. Graham seized the early morning ferry schedule, and grabbed a couple of bottled frappaccinos while Clarice handled the transaction. In no time at all, they were back on the road in a mid sized sedan, tearing along I-90 towards Seattle. Clarice drove while Graham slept, unable to maintain the adrenaline level that was consuming him. He woke briefly when they boarded the ferry to the peninsula, but then fell back to sleep. Clarice left him in the car and went up to the passenger deck to get some breakfast.

She wasn't hungry, but she knew she'd need the energy later. Her stalwart companion would need it, too. She promised herself she would deliver some sandwiches down to the car soon, but for now she needed to get some air.

The grip texture of the exterior ferry deck was painted a shade somewhere between green and blue, and yet managed to hold all the lustre of military gray. Clarice wove through a few Australian tourists and made her way to the bow, the wind whipping her hair. It had been two days since she had a shower, she reflected. She grasped the railing and looked out at the mist covered waves, feeling the spray as it rolled off them and clung to her pale skin. She closed her eyes and imagined that she was asleep and dreaming, flying along the waves while the wind wrapped its icy arms around her, pressing its fierce little kisses to her face.

In an instant, the memory returned. Though her skin was whipped numb by the cold northwest wind, she could feel those lips pressing softly against hers, his tongue flickering out to explore the tight crease her lips formed as they pressed together.

Clarice clapped a hand to her mouth, a great gasping sob rising up through her. She fought to stifle it, turning on her heel and ran back into the warmth of the ferry interior. The vibrating pulse of the engines tickled the soles of her feet through her shoes, and she was grateful, for the thrum of the machine was grounding. Pulling her shabby winter coat tighter around her shoulders, she made her way back to the pretentiously named 'bistro' to buy a sandwich for Graham, and another cup of coffee for herself.

Nursing her latte, Clarice huddled on one of the uncomfortable plastic benches and stared out the dirty window at the approaching storm. Ten minutes later, the announcement went out that they were nearing their destination and all drive-on passengers were to return to their cars. As she clicked down the narrow stairwell to the car deck with the rest of the mob, the feeling of paralysis was starting to evaporate. She made her way over to the sedan, unlocked the door and got behind the wheel. Graham blinked sleepily at her, stifling a yawn.

"We there?"

"Just about," she said quickly, handing him the sandwich. "Here, I picked this up at the deli."

Graham contemplated the sandwich for a moment, not quite remembering to do with it, before tearing into the saran wrap with his fingers, and taking a bite.

"Thanks," he muttered after swallowing.

"Don't mention it," Clarice said, starting the engine as the ferry neared the dock.

Time was beginning to catch up to them. The mist that had begun to accumulate over Puget Sound had moved in, spreading through the Strait of Juan de Fuca. It being a winter's day and already substantially dark, the fog crawling over the highway blocked out everything a few feet away from the hood of the car. Clarice flicked on the hi-beams while Graham returned to the distracting task of cleaning the firearms. Despite this, he knew that his tongue would probably be the best weapon for dealing with Lecter. If he lived long enough.

As they rounded a bend, Dungeness spit loomed into view, spanning over the water like some malformed arm reaching through the clouds. Sea birds wheeled and called, their voices tolling back like seashore bells.

Graham heaved a sigh, breathing in the thick cold air.

"Ah, to feel fog on my face, and death in my throat."

Clarice gently pressed her foot against the break, and slowed the car to a noiseless stop. The fatigue donning ritual was repeated, neither she nor Graham bothering to make comment on the feeling of deja vu. It was soon overtaken with dread and excitement as they marched the hundred yards through the narrow band of woods. Before stepping out from under the cover of the trees, Clarice muttered to Graham.

"Let me go through the door first. If he sees me first..." she trailed off. Biting his lip, Graham nodded, remembering what Lecter had said over the phone.

Standing upright and leading the way, Clarice hurried across the patio to the unlocked screen door. Graham set his foot on the spring to keep it from creaking, shutting it silently behind them. Unlike Murdock, Willy's bungalow was kept in fine polished order. Low lighting flattered the cedar trimmed kitchen, giving everything a comfortable glow. Passing by the counter, they crept into the dining room, upon whence Molly and Willy's unconscious and bound forms, tied back to back to chairs, became visible. Graham opened his mouth to call their names, but Clarice grasped his arm and he quickly fell silent. "Molly," Clarice hissed. "Molly, can you hear me?"

Molly stirred, but gave no other indication of consciousness. Her head lolled back against her son's. A thick pack was slung around her neck, full of what looked horribly like plastic explosive. Graham jerked suddenly behind her, and she heard the sound of his revolver skidding across the floor. Behind him, dressed quite casually in a steel grey cable knit sweater, was Dr. Hannibal Lecter, holding a low voltage tazer in one hand, and a chunky black cell phone in the other.

"How kind of you to drop in, Clarice," he said softly, in a confiding voice. Eyes widening with horror, Clarice took a step back, raising her gun and aiming it squarely at Lecter's heart.

"Don't a fool. He's in no danger," he chided, tilting his head with an amiable smile.

"Put down the weapons, Dr. Lecter, or so help me God, I will shoot you," Clarice ordered, voice quavering with shock. Lecter chuckled softly, and took a step forward, to which Clarice automatically took a step back.

"Clarice, surely you're not still labouring under the delusion that He will help you."

"I'll shoot you just the same."

"Will is in no danger," Lecter repeated, and then held up the little black detonator and nodded towards his captives. "But they are."

A click. Graham had gotten hold of his revolver. Coughing, he lifted it, aiming it at Lecter from the floor.

"Let them go, you son of a bitch." He growled, trying in vain to lift himself to his feet. Lecter smiled infuriatingly, stepping past Clarice and Graham, completely unmindful of the handguns trained on him.

"No," he said calmly, leaning against the dining room table. "Quid pro quo, Will. I think you know what I want."

Graham swallowed.

"No," he choked, voice full of protest.

"Will, what the hell is he talking about?"

"Allow me to bring you up to speed, Ex-Agent Starling," Lecter drawled, flipping the small detonator in his hand. On the table, LED lights flickered threateningly the router wired to the packs of explosives affixed to Molly and Willy's neck.

"I have here two individuals for whom Will Graham values very highly," Lecter continued, licking his lips. "Both of whom have liberal amounts of commercial Semtex slung around their necks, assuredly enough to take their heads right off. I believe Will understood my indication that an equally gruesome fate awaited his wife and step child had he failed to bring you along, Clarice."

"Oh my God," Clarice whispered. "All this just to get to me?"

"I rather think anything less wouldn't have been quite effective. Now," Lecter said briskly. "As enjoyable as this whole experience has been, I would rather like to get moving along, Will."

"I..." Graham looked at his sleeping wife, and then back at Clarice, completely bemused.

Clarice glanced around at the windows and doors, and felt her shoulders sag. Lecter watched her, a soft hiss of exhaled breath issuing from his lips.

"That's right, Clarice. You know the only possible course of action, don't you," he purred.

_Yes, I do. _

Slowly, Clarice bent down and placed her weapon on the glossy hardwood floor.

"Clarice, what are you doing..." Graham murmured disbelievingly. She cast him a look of regret, and then slowly crossed the threshold, lips tight and chin thrust forward as she stared defiantly up at Lecter. His lips parted for a moment, and he reached out to brush a loose strand of hair from her sweaty face. She looked away. Graham watched in morbid fascination, his hands shaking as he lowered the gun.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked weakly, defeated.

"Nothing too taxing, I shouldn't think. I'll be bringing this little detonator along with me to ensure our Clarice's good behaviour. It has a range of ten miles, so let's say in three hours I will disarm it."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"Graham asked, searching Lecter's inscrutable expression.

"You don't," Lecter said, unconcerned, and then glanced his Rolex. "Shall we synchronize our watches? I make it two hours, fifty seven minutes and twenty seven seconds..."

Graham gently dropped the gun on the floor before Lecter could finish his sentence, and backed away, holding his hands in the air.

"Very good," Lecter said, his voice full of condescension. He turned to Clarice. "Shall we?"

Lips tight, Clarice walked directly through the front door, head held high. Lacing her fingers behind her head, she stepped out onto the front porch with her arms raised like an arrestee. She didn't need to look to know Lecter was following her.

"Put your hands down, Clarice, I don't need you drawing attention to yourself by acting like I'm marching you off the plank at gun point," he hissed into her ear. Eyes full of resentment, she lowered her arms.

"Get rid of the fatigue jacket, and take my arm, Clarice," he continued as they made their way down the gravel driveway, closer and closer to the road. Burning with frustration, she took his arm loosely, trying not to touch him. As they got to the gravel shoulder, Lecter snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her close, smiling brightly to a truck driver as he pulled to a stop so they could cross the highway.

"Where are we going?" Clarice asked as Lecter calmly led her down a steep path.

"Nowhere in particular."

Clarice felt a sharp sting, and went to slap her arm, thinking it was a bee.

"Ow!"

Bemused, she watched Lecter, who looked at her sympathetically.

"I do apologize, Clarice, but I really can't have you attempting anything heroic."

Clarice frowned, feeling the world before her start to spin. She looked down at her arm, and saw the slim hypodermic needle quivering as it stood out from her arm. Lecter carefully withdrew it, and gently caressed her cheek with the cold edge of the metal plunger. After she was completely unconscious, he hefted her prone from in his arms and carried her the rest of the way down the path.

After two hours had passed, Will Graham finally ventured to call the bomb squad, the FBI, the Seattle Police, the state troopers, the national guard and anyone else he could get hold of. Willy and Molly were freed in short order, sedated and airlifted to Harborview Medical Center to be thoroughly examined by the staff there. Graham followed shortly after joining in the search for Hannibal Lecter, but it seemed like he had disappeared off the face of the earth, and taken Clarice Starling with him.

After a bit of bureaucratic fuss, and then some absolutely enraged screaming from ex-Agent Graham, and Dr. Lecter was elevated to the top of the Ten Most Wanted List for the second time in two years. Failure to recapture him brought pressure down on the Bureau and the

federal government right along with it.

Tabloids began screaming that Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling had eloped together. Conspiracy theorists railed that he had escaped to Russia to help rebuild the soviet empire. Some unbalanced individuals called into local police stations claiming that they were the doctor himself.

Once the manhunt for Dr. Lecter had officially begun, Graham was cordially invited to lead. For once he put aside his qualms about the FBI, feeling he owed no less to the woman who had given herself over to the devil for his family. A month after the search had started, Graham received a letter, postmarked Denver by a re-mailing service. A few fingerprints were found on the letter itself (it wasn't opened until a thorough x-ray scan had been conducted) and the handwriting analysis test came back positive on former Special Agent Starling.

_Dear Will,_

_I can't say all that I would like to here, but I want to confirm that I am in good health. I know it's pointless to tell you not to worry, but there are things I must tell you: I must now resume the hunt and I can't share it with you, the FBI or anyone else for reasons I can't entirely explain. I can't take the risk that something will happen to you or your family again, or someone else's family. Trust that I am doing all I can to finish what we set out to do. Hopefully I will be able to put this all to rest as soon as possible, but in the mean time, here's some advice that the guru once gave me, and probably gave you too at one point: sometimes you have to play it their way. Whether it's the criminals in striped jumpsuits or the criminals in pinstriped Armani suits, in order to stay true to the goal, you must sacrifice some of your soul. _

_No one comes out of our line of business and remains pure, Will, me least of all. Though I am ashamed, I know what I have to do in order to stay true to my goal. Thank you for all the help that you've given me._

_Clarice M. Starling_

Graham stared at the letter for long moments. He brought it up to his mouth, and inhaled the scent of the featureless paper. It smelled...very faintly...of French cologne.


End file.
